Lustrous Darlings (sarcasm), by Catriona

Q: Show us your darlings. Give us five or ten lines of your own work that you think shine.

A: Oh goody. My favourite: blowing my own trumpet. 

Well, I'm not going to and you can't make me. Instead, I'm going to show a typical bit of my own work, i.e. a bit that took five or ten goes to get into publishable shape.

Note, I’m writing this before I’ve looked for one. That’s how sure I am that finding an example won’t be any trouble.

(10 minutes later) Found one

In this scene, what’s happening is Helen is serving tea to her mother and another woman. But what this scene is doing (it’s from early in chapter one) is telling us what Helen looks like, what her mother looks like, and a bit about the strain of having a posh visitor on a Sunday afternoon, in 1948, before refrigeration. That’s not a major theme or anything. It’s just the kind of detail that makes setting in time, place, and social class work.  

 

Draft 1

If Helen hadn’t the tea things to deal with, the sight of Mrs Sinclair sitting there in her mother’s big room (what does it look like?), still in her church clothes (what do they look like?), might have stopped her dead.

Helen, concentrating hard, managed to set down the tray at Greet’s elbow and take a seat without colouring. Like Greet, anytime she got through an awkward moment without blushing she was happy. (Two “withouts” – yuk.)

“And do you take sugar?” Greet said, in a grating dainty whine that made Helen’s cheeks flush after all.

“Just a little milk if it’s quite fresh,” Mrs Sinclair said. (Is this enough to convey the point?)

 

Draft 2

If Helen hadn’t the tea things to deal with, the sight of Mrs Sinclair sitting there in Greet’s big room, still in her church clothes, might have stopped her dead. She was a large woman, her hair teased out in the style of her youth with a hat perched on top of it all, and she dressed herself to look impressive rather than attractive. (Is this enough?)

Helen (didn’t need to repeat this. Or did I? Would we know who “she” was. Fix!), concentrating hard, managed to set down the tray at Greet’s elbow and take a seat without feeling the surge and tingle of her face colouring. Like Greet, anytime she got through an awkward moment without blushing she was happy. (Still two “without”s. Still yuk.)

So there they were, at three of the four chairs round the gate-leg table in the window (is this enough?), Greet pouring tea and Mrs Sinclair unbuttoning her gloves.

‘And do you take sugar?’ Greet said, in a grating, dainty whine that made Helen’s cheeks flush after all.

‘Just a little milk if it’s quite fresh,’ Mrs Sinclair said.

Greet’s hand shook as she plied the milk jug and her face was a sudden lash of deepest pink, screaming at her hair. (Is it enough now?)

 

Draft 3

If Helen hadn’t the tea things to deal with the sight of Mrs Sinclair sitting there in Greet’s big room, still in her church clothes, might have stopped her dead. She was a large woman, her hair teased out in the style of her youth with a hat perched on top of it all, and she dressed herself to look impressive, not attractive, with wide shoulders and box pleats, a fox fur even on a summer’s day. (This is enough)

Helen (yuk), concentrating hard, at least managed to set down the tray at Greet’s elbow and take a seat without feeling the surge and tingle of her face colouring. Anytime she got through an awkward moment without blushing she was happy. (Still two “without”s but slightly different rhythm. Modified yuk.)

So there they were, at three of the four chairs round the gate-leg table in the window, looking at each other through the polished leaves of the aspidistra (is this enough?), Greet pouring tea and Mrs Sinclair unbuttoning her gloves.

‘And do you take sugar?’ Greet said, in a grating, dainty whine that made Helen’s cheeks flush after all.

‘Just a little milk if it’s quite fresh,’ Mrs Sinclair said.

Greet’s hand shook as she plied the milk jug and her face was a sudden lash of deepest pink, screaming at her hair.

Helen felt a moment of glee, but then seeing her mother bend to check the cup for flecks, and even take a quick sniff, sobered her again. (Is this too much?)

 

Draft 4

If she hadn’t the tea things to deal with (are you sick of this yet? welcome to my world), the sight of Mrs Sinclair sitting there still in her church clothes, might have stopped Helen dead. She was a large woman, her hair teased out in the style of her youth with a hat perched on top of it all, and she dressed herself to look impressive, not attractive, with wide shoulders and box pleats, a fox fur even on a summer’s day.

Concentrating hard, Helen (The two counts of “Helen” are now buried in the middle of sentences, so they don’t chime) managed to set down the tray at her mother’s elbow and take a seat, doing it all without the unwelcome surge and tingle of her face darkening. Anytime she got through an awkward moment like this one and didn’t turn as red as a poppy (ditched a “without” – yay) she was glad of it.

‘And do you take sugar?’ Greet said, in a grating, dainty whine that made Helen’s cheeks flame after all.

‘Just a little milk if it’s quite fresh,’ Mrs Sinclair said.

(removed the rest – thought it was too much)

(Wait though – I’ve lost the description of the room)

 

There are more drafts. I’m missing out what happened when my agent read it, and then when my editor read it, and then when I read what my editor said, and then when she read what I said, and said more, and then I read what she said . . . but here is the same page as it heads off to the copy-editor – let’s see what she says! – taken from a file that is now called “1948 Book submission draft FT edits CMcP comments FT feedback CMcP comments2”. That, believe me, is a working title.

 

Ready for copy edit

If she hadn’t the tea things to deal with, the sight of Mrs Sinclair sitting there still in her church clothes, might have stopped Helen dead. She was a large woman, her hair teased out in the style of her youth with a hat perched on top of it all, and she dressed herself to look impressive, not attractive, with wide shoulders and box pleats, a fox fur even on a summer’s day. (That was enough.)

Helen picked her way through the good furniture – so much of it that the place felt more like a saleroom than a home: the chenille-covered table with the thick, turned legs and the four chairs that didn’t quite fit under it; another two on either end of thon behemoth of a walnut sideboard that was filled with tureens and decanters, never used since they’d been unpacked thirty years before for a present show. (Nothing I had done was enough, even before I deleted it.) Concentrating hard, she managed to set down the tray at her mother’s elbow and take a seat, doing it all without the unwelcome surge and tingle of her face darkening. That ready darkening was the bane of her life. She had got her colouring from Greet, white skin if she could keep out of the sun, freckles else, and orange curls that neither brush nor pin could tame. (Finally! This is what Greet and Helen looked like all along in my head. Pro tip: you need to put it on the page or no one knows.) Anytime she got through an awkward moment like this one and didn’t turn as red as a poppy she was glad of it. (“Without” pile-up gone and forgotten.)

So there they were, at three of the four chairs round the gate-leg table in the window, looking at each other through the polished leaves of the aspidistra (it’s back. More is more), Greet pouring tea and Mrs Sinclair unbuttoning her gloves.

‘And do you take sugar?’ Greet said, in a grating, dainty whine that made Helen’s cheeks flame after all.

‘Just a little milk if it’s quite fresh,’ Mrs Sinclair said.

Greet’s hand shook as she plied the milk jug and her face was a sudden lash of deepest pink, screaming at her hair. (It’s back.) Helen felt a moment of glee, but then seeing her mother bend to check the cup for flecks, and even take a quick sniff, sobered her again. (This is back too.) Mrs Sinclair had a cold cupboard out the back of her kitchen with slate shelves and a wet floor. Helen had seen it many times as she helped out at children’s treats, fetching lemonade. All right for some. (And it wasn’t enough. So here’s more.)

If anyone is still reading, here is an example from the other extreme. 

“Lustre.” 

That one word sentence opened the prologue of draft one of my first novel, AFTER THE ARMISTICE BALL, and it was still there in the published book. (I was describing a party held in 1918, for which the attendees get their jewels out of the bank and at which they give it laldie.) To the best of my recollection 20 years later the rest of the first paragraph went like this:

“Lustre. That was what had been missing and was suddenly back. The Duffys’ armistice ball was lustrous in a way thought to have been lost for good.”

And now let me check:

Not bad, right?

The fact that I nearly remembered a line I wrote in 2001 is why I don’t really believe in the concept of darlings. By the time a book is ready to go, the writer has read every word dozens of times and no prose in the history of literature could escape its author’s disenchantment on those terms. I still remember the heartsink of opening my file every morning and seeing that word. Ugh. I’ve never used “lustre” again.

Cx