I have an almost finished WIP (work in progress) that in essence I LOVE. But as I reread and attmept to edit and finalize I also kind of hate it. The story has evolved greatly from the original story I started and I am now torn on which way it should actually go. Keep in mind I have already begun the sequel to the book.
So I thought I would put up some excerpts from the story, one from how it is and one with major changes and see what you guys think! Any and all comments are welcome and appreciated!
Little background info: This is from my wip "When No One was Listening" which is featured right now on my site. It's the story of Sloane Christianson, a troubled teenager who still hears the voice of her dead twin in her head. Her mother is a lazy, loose woman who sees Sloane "as an unmatched sock" and a burden. Recently returned to her hometown, Sloane falls into the "popular crowd" and finds herself on the arm of her childhood crush. Bullied by the town ourcast, leered upon by her new step father and badgered by her dead twin Sloane must find a way to live a normal life.
My problem is finding a way to insert Sarah (her twins) thoughts and conversation and have it still feel natural, for some reason right now when I read it it feels choppy and wrong. Italicised words are Sloanes internal thoughts. Bold type is Sarah and italicised and bold is the two together.
Excerpt one (this is how the story is now)
My fist slammed into her perfect face, pushing five grand worth of a nose job
sickeningly to the right. Detached I watched as the most popular girl in school
stumbled, holding her hands over the wreck I’d made of her looks, no one would
ever believe it was my dead sister’s fault.
Oh crap, I just punched the prom
queen.
I have these kinds of moments far too often. Tiny blips in time where nothing else
matters except Sarah, moments when I can still hear her in my ear urging me
on.
I think I’m crazy.
I know for sure that I am alone, I am broken, and I am a murderer. Some things can
be pushed down deep inside of you, but if you can still hear your dead twin’s
voice in your head, even if it’s not that often, well then they aren’t deep
enough.
I looked back up at Bitsy, thin drops of blood stained her porcelain white skin as
it rolled, splattered and pooled at her feet. The dirty grout greedily sucked it
up. The sound of the room rushed inside my ears, pounding in my head, her gasps,
the jeering of onlookers, the sound of feet slapping against wet cement and
loud, shrill laughter. The smell of chlorine, wet clothes and iron swam up my
nose.
My perfect unbroken nose.
My sides ached with laughter. Stuttering breaths and every bit of my will power
couldn’t stop the cackle rolling forth and ricocheting off the walls. Years upon
years of repressed guilt and rage poured to the surface, falling from me in
shrill peals of amusement. Everyone
stood and stared in utter disbelief of the chaos I created. I found very little
composer in the harsh stares, and lost it again as Bitsy
whined,
“My nosth sthee brothke my nosth”
Can prom queens be raccoons? Cuz that’s
what she’ll look like by this afternoon.
I learned years ago I couldn’t quite the sound of my sister in my head, so why
fight listening? Sarah was always the adventurous one, the brave one. I was
forever hiding behind her, afraid to look people in the eyes, afraid to stand up
or speak my mind. Days like today, it was like she pushed my buttons and forced
me into actions I would never take, like punching the most popular girl in
school right in the face.
I went willingly as Mr. Hawthorn led me toward his office. The resounding slam of
his door brought forth thoughts of jail cells clanging closed. I needed a cell,
a padded cell to hide in. One where Sarah couldn’t find me or remind me of who I
really was, a broken, lonely girl who killed the only person who ever cared
about her.
Sloane Christianson cheerleader slayer, priceless.
Stop, you got me in trouble!
Well you got me dead so I guess we’re even
for today.
“Sloane, it’s been a hard year for you.” Principal Hawthorn
sighed.
No kidding? He’s a genius.
Shhh…
His chair creaked forward, as he looked at me intensely. I’m sure he was trying to
grasp how he missed the hidden psycho lurking beneath my pale exterior. My knees
slid up to my chest, putting a wall between us. Even though I knew he couldn’t
see the disembodied voice that floated in my head I hid my eyes behind my hair
just in case.
“With the sudden death of your grandparents and the unexpected family trouble we have tried to be lenient on you.” He continued. The words fell from his fat, spit covered lips. Sarah urged
me to scream, to stand on his desk and tell the whole world how good ole Hackthorn had come to my house the
weekend my father bailed. Let them know he soothed the pain by sending me to the
movies and being my mother’s “special friend”. That’s what she called it, like I
was 12.
“Sloane this is my ‘special friend’Donnie, Tommy, Randy, Joe…”pick a name my mom’s
friends with them all.
“Can you tell us what happened today Sloane?” The lifeless voice of the counselor
slid over me. She sat cloaked in shadow in the corner, the slant of light and dark on her round,
pasty features hid her face. As always her pencil hovered ready to attack the
notepad with her overzealous analysis. My eyes traveled toward the floor,
falling on her feet. I wiggled my toes, praying mine never got wider than they
were long.
Like hams shoved into loafers.
I hated the way she stared at me, like a kid looks at a bug in a jar. Her eyes
filled with a mixture of intrigue, fear and threat. She wanted to pin me down
and cut me open because I frustrated her. I frustrate a lot of people, I
frustrate me. I could have been her‘breakthrough student’, if only I would open
up for her. Little did she know I didn’t even open up for me, so what made her
think she was so special? From day one when I was transplanted here with my
thick student file she seemed to be everywhere I went, going so insanely far as
to follow me from elementary to junior high to high school. I sat and waited for
her to pluck my wings off.
Psycho kid stalker and I’m
suppose to be the crazy one!
You’re a lot of things sis, crazy isn’t one
of them.
I think you’re proof that I
am.
It’s hard enough to be normal with the
dead nesting in your ear, throw in the nagging guidance counselor shadowing your
every move and I never stood a chance. I wonder what she would have done if I
unloaded on her, if I stood on the desk and screamed, ‘Make the voices stop’and
then crumpled to the floor sobbing about murder and deep water.
Heart attack…
no doubt..
she woulda fell right outta those
shoes.
I stifled a laugh. As annoying as it was to have Sarah in my
head, sometimes we agreed.
Excerpt Two would essintially remove Sarah's words and thoughts from the book altogether and she would only be refernced as a character that died before the book started.
My fist slammed into her perfect face, pushing five grand worth of a nose job
sickeningly to the right. Detached I watched as the most popular girl in school
stumbled, holding her hands over the wreck I’d made of her looks, no one would
ever believe it was my dead sister’s fault.
Oh crap, I just punched the prom
queen.
I have these kinds of moments far too often. Tiny blips in time where nothing else
matters except Sarah. I think I’m crazy.
I know for sure that I am alone, I am broken, and I am a murderer. Some things can
be pushed down deep inside of you, but if you can still hear your dead twin’s
voice in your head, even if it’s not that often, well then they aren’t deep
enough.
I looked back up at Bitsy, thin drops of blood stained her porcelain white skin as
it rolled, splattered and pooled at her feet. The dirty grout greedily sucked it
up. The sound of the room rushed inside my ears, pounding in my head, her gasps,
the jeering of onlookers, the sound of feet slapping against wet cement and
loud, shrill laughter. The smell of chlorine, wet clothes and iron swam up my
nose.
My perfect unbroken
nose.
My sides ached with laughter. Stuttering breaths and every bit of my will power
couldn’t stop the cackle rolling forth and ricocheting off the walls. Years upon
years of repressed guilt and rage poured to the surface, falling from me in
shrill peals of amusement. Everyone stood and stared in utter disbelief of the chaos I created. I found very little composer in the harsh stares, and lost it again as Bitsy
whined,
“My
nosth sthee brothke my nosth”
I went willingly as Mr. Hawthorn led me toward his office. The resounding slam of
his door brought forth thoughts of jail cells clanging closed. I needed a cell,
a padded cell to hide in. One where Sarah's memory couldn’t find me or remind me of who I
really was, a broken, lonely girl who killed the only person who ever cared
about her.
“Sloane, it’s been a hard year for you.” Principal Hawthorn
sighed.
His chair creaked forward, as he looked at me intensely. I’m sure he was trying to
grasp how he missed the hidden psycho lurking beneath my pale exterior. My knees
slid up to my chest, putting a wall between us.
“With the sudden death of your
grandparents and the unexpected family trouble we have tried to be lenient on
you.” He continued. The words fell from his fat, spit covered lips. Sarah urged
me to scream, to stand on his desk and tell the whole world how good ole Hackthorn had come to my house the weekend my father bailed. Let them know he soothed the pain by sending me to the
movies and being my mother’s “special friend”. That’s what she called it, like I
was 12.
“Sloane
this is my ‘special friend’Donnie, Tommy, Randy, Joe…”pick a name my mom’s
friends with them all.
“Can you tell us what happened today Sloane?” The lifeless voice of the counselor
slid over me.
She sat cloaked in shadow in the corner, the slant of light and dark on her round,
pasty features hid her face. As always her pencil hovered ready to attack the
notepad with her overzealous analysis. My eyes traveled toward the floor,
falling on her feet. I wiggled my toes, praying mine never got wider than they
were long. I hated the way she stared at me, like a kid looks at a bug in a jar. Her eyes
filled with a mixture of intrigue, fear and threat. She wanted to pin me down
and cut me open because I frustrated her. I frustrate a lot of people, I
frustrate me. I could have been her‘breakthrough student’, if only I would open
up for her. Little did she know I didn’t even open up for me, so what made her
think she was so special? From day one when I was transplanted here with my
thick student file she seemed to be everywhere I went, going so insanely far as
to follow me from elementary to junior high to high school. I sat and waited for
her to pluck my wings off.
Psycho kid stalker and I’m
suppose to be the crazy one!
I wonder what she would have done if I unloaded on her, if I stood on the desk and screamed, ‘Make the voices stop’ and then crumpled to the floor sobbing about murder and deep water.
Heart
attack…
So I thought I would put up some excerpts from the story, one from how it is and one with major changes and see what you guys think! Any and all comments are welcome and appreciated!
Little background info: This is from my wip "When No One was Listening" which is featured right now on my site. It's the story of Sloane Christianson, a troubled teenager who still hears the voice of her dead twin in her head. Her mother is a lazy, loose woman who sees Sloane "as an unmatched sock" and a burden. Recently returned to her hometown, Sloane falls into the "popular crowd" and finds herself on the arm of her childhood crush. Bullied by the town ourcast, leered upon by her new step father and badgered by her dead twin Sloane must find a way to live a normal life.
My problem is finding a way to insert Sarah (her twins) thoughts and conversation and have it still feel natural, for some reason right now when I read it it feels choppy and wrong. Italicised words are Sloanes internal thoughts. Bold type is Sarah and italicised and bold is the two together.
Excerpt one (this is how the story is now)
My fist slammed into her perfect face, pushing five grand worth of a nose job
sickeningly to the right. Detached I watched as the most popular girl in school
stumbled, holding her hands over the wreck I’d made of her looks, no one would
ever believe it was my dead sister’s fault.
Oh crap, I just punched the prom
queen.
I have these kinds of moments far too often. Tiny blips in time where nothing else
matters except Sarah, moments when I can still hear her in my ear urging me
on.
I think I’m crazy.
I know for sure that I am alone, I am broken, and I am a murderer. Some things can
be pushed down deep inside of you, but if you can still hear your dead twin’s
voice in your head, even if it’s not that often, well then they aren’t deep
enough.
I looked back up at Bitsy, thin drops of blood stained her porcelain white skin as
it rolled, splattered and pooled at her feet. The dirty grout greedily sucked it
up. The sound of the room rushed inside my ears, pounding in my head, her gasps,
the jeering of onlookers, the sound of feet slapping against wet cement and
loud, shrill laughter. The smell of chlorine, wet clothes and iron swam up my
nose.
My perfect unbroken nose.
My sides ached with laughter. Stuttering breaths and every bit of my will power
couldn’t stop the cackle rolling forth and ricocheting off the walls. Years upon
years of repressed guilt and rage poured to the surface, falling from me in
shrill peals of amusement. Everyone
stood and stared in utter disbelief of the chaos I created. I found very little
composer in the harsh stares, and lost it again as Bitsy
whined,
“My nosth sthee brothke my nosth”
Can prom queens be raccoons? Cuz that’s
what she’ll look like by this afternoon.
I learned years ago I couldn’t quite the sound of my sister in my head, so why
fight listening? Sarah was always the adventurous one, the brave one. I was
forever hiding behind her, afraid to look people in the eyes, afraid to stand up
or speak my mind. Days like today, it was like she pushed my buttons and forced
me into actions I would never take, like punching the most popular girl in
school right in the face.
I went willingly as Mr. Hawthorn led me toward his office. The resounding slam of
his door brought forth thoughts of jail cells clanging closed. I needed a cell,
a padded cell to hide in. One where Sarah couldn’t find me or remind me of who I
really was, a broken, lonely girl who killed the only person who ever cared
about her.
Sloane Christianson cheerleader slayer, priceless.
Stop, you got me in trouble!
Well you got me dead so I guess we’re even
for today.
“Sloane, it’s been a hard year for you.” Principal Hawthorn
sighed.
No kidding? He’s a genius.
Shhh…
His chair creaked forward, as he looked at me intensely. I’m sure he was trying to
grasp how he missed the hidden psycho lurking beneath my pale exterior. My knees
slid up to my chest, putting a wall between us. Even though I knew he couldn’t
see the disembodied voice that floated in my head I hid my eyes behind my hair
just in case.
“With the sudden death of your grandparents and the unexpected family trouble we have tried to be lenient on you.” He continued. The words fell from his fat, spit covered lips. Sarah urged
me to scream, to stand on his desk and tell the whole world how good ole Hackthorn had come to my house the
weekend my father bailed. Let them know he soothed the pain by sending me to the
movies and being my mother’s “special friend”. That’s what she called it, like I
was 12.
“Sloane this is my ‘special friend’Donnie, Tommy, Randy, Joe…”pick a name my mom’s
friends with them all.
“Can you tell us what happened today Sloane?” The lifeless voice of the counselor
slid over me. She sat cloaked in shadow in the corner, the slant of light and dark on her round,
pasty features hid her face. As always her pencil hovered ready to attack the
notepad with her overzealous analysis. My eyes traveled toward the floor,
falling on her feet. I wiggled my toes, praying mine never got wider than they
were long.
Like hams shoved into loafers.
I hated the way she stared at me, like a kid looks at a bug in a jar. Her eyes
filled with a mixture of intrigue, fear and threat. She wanted to pin me down
and cut me open because I frustrated her. I frustrate a lot of people, I
frustrate me. I could have been her‘breakthrough student’, if only I would open
up for her. Little did she know I didn’t even open up for me, so what made her
think she was so special? From day one when I was transplanted here with my
thick student file she seemed to be everywhere I went, going so insanely far as
to follow me from elementary to junior high to high school. I sat and waited for
her to pluck my wings off.
Psycho kid stalker and I’m
suppose to be the crazy one!
You’re a lot of things sis, crazy isn’t one
of them.
I think you’re proof that I
am.
It’s hard enough to be normal with the
dead nesting in your ear, throw in the nagging guidance counselor shadowing your
every move and I never stood a chance. I wonder what she would have done if I
unloaded on her, if I stood on the desk and screamed, ‘Make the voices stop’and
then crumpled to the floor sobbing about murder and deep water.
Heart attack…
no doubt..
she woulda fell right outta those
shoes.
I stifled a laugh. As annoying as it was to have Sarah in my
head, sometimes we agreed.
Excerpt Two would essintially remove Sarah's words and thoughts from the book altogether and she would only be refernced as a character that died before the book started.
My fist slammed into her perfect face, pushing five grand worth of a nose job
sickeningly to the right. Detached I watched as the most popular girl in school
stumbled, holding her hands over the wreck I’d made of her looks, no one would
ever believe it was my dead sister’s fault.
Oh crap, I just punched the prom
queen.
I have these kinds of moments far too often. Tiny blips in time where nothing else
matters except Sarah. I think I’m crazy.
I know for sure that I am alone, I am broken, and I am a murderer. Some things can
be pushed down deep inside of you, but if you can still hear your dead twin’s
voice in your head, even if it’s not that often, well then they aren’t deep
enough.
I looked back up at Bitsy, thin drops of blood stained her porcelain white skin as
it rolled, splattered and pooled at her feet. The dirty grout greedily sucked it
up. The sound of the room rushed inside my ears, pounding in my head, her gasps,
the jeering of onlookers, the sound of feet slapping against wet cement and
loud, shrill laughter. The smell of chlorine, wet clothes and iron swam up my
nose.
My perfect unbroken
nose.
My sides ached with laughter. Stuttering breaths and every bit of my will power
couldn’t stop the cackle rolling forth and ricocheting off the walls. Years upon
years of repressed guilt and rage poured to the surface, falling from me in
shrill peals of amusement. Everyone stood and stared in utter disbelief of the chaos I created. I found very little composer in the harsh stares, and lost it again as Bitsy
whined,
“My
nosth sthee brothke my nosth”
I went willingly as Mr. Hawthorn led me toward his office. The resounding slam of
his door brought forth thoughts of jail cells clanging closed. I needed a cell,
a padded cell to hide in. One where Sarah's memory couldn’t find me or remind me of who I
really was, a broken, lonely girl who killed the only person who ever cared
about her.
“Sloane, it’s been a hard year for you.” Principal Hawthorn
sighed.
His chair creaked forward, as he looked at me intensely. I’m sure he was trying to
grasp how he missed the hidden psycho lurking beneath my pale exterior. My knees
slid up to my chest, putting a wall between us.
“With the sudden death of your
grandparents and the unexpected family trouble we have tried to be lenient on
you.” He continued. The words fell from his fat, spit covered lips. Sarah urged
me to scream, to stand on his desk and tell the whole world how good ole Hackthorn had come to my house the weekend my father bailed. Let them know he soothed the pain by sending me to the
movies and being my mother’s “special friend”. That’s what she called it, like I
was 12.
“Sloane
this is my ‘special friend’Donnie, Tommy, Randy, Joe…”pick a name my mom’s
friends with them all.
“Can you tell us what happened today Sloane?” The lifeless voice of the counselor
slid over me.
She sat cloaked in shadow in the corner, the slant of light and dark on her round,
pasty features hid her face. As always her pencil hovered ready to attack the
notepad with her overzealous analysis. My eyes traveled toward the floor,
falling on her feet. I wiggled my toes, praying mine never got wider than they
were long. I hated the way she stared at me, like a kid looks at a bug in a jar. Her eyes
filled with a mixture of intrigue, fear and threat. She wanted to pin me down
and cut me open because I frustrated her. I frustrate a lot of people, I
frustrate me. I could have been her‘breakthrough student’, if only I would open
up for her. Little did she know I didn’t even open up for me, so what made her
think she was so special? From day one when I was transplanted here with my
thick student file she seemed to be everywhere I went, going so insanely far as
to follow me from elementary to junior high to high school. I sat and waited for
her to pluck my wings off.
Psycho kid stalker and I’m
suppose to be the crazy one!
I wonder what she would have done if I unloaded on her, if I stood on the desk and screamed, ‘Make the voices stop’ and then crumpled to the floor sobbing about murder and deep water.
Heart
attack…
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