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“Power isn’t getting the President to return your phone calls.” The old man croaked. (HE LITERALLY CROAKED, OR IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE ATTACHED TO THE PREVIOUS DIALOGUE?) “Power is telling your secretary to get a number and you’ll call back later. (PERIOD. NEW SENTENCE FOR THE EFFECT YOU WANT. NOTE, IT'S NOT CLEAR HOW TELLING THE SECRETARY TO GET NUMBER IS RELATED TO THE PRESIDENT. GET THE 'PRESIDENT'S NUMBER'?) If it’s convenient.” He stopped long enough to choke up a foul-looking (VAGUE. IF YOU'RE GOING TO MENTION IT, THEN YOU HAVE TO GO THE GENRE-APPROPRIATE DISTANCE. GREEN, YELLOW, BLOODY, BROWN? WHEN I TOOK CARE OF MY GRANDFATHER AS HE DIED OF LUNG CANCER, I CAN DESCRIBE THE SLIME HE COUGHED UP VERSUS SNEEZED UP VERSUS CHOKED UP.) slime. The nurse sitting at his bedside, wiped his mouth and chin carefully. “Power is knowing
I regarded the old man at length. Wizened and beset with ailments, he was a study in modern life—extending medicine. Fluids from plastic sacks inverted on chrome plated stands, and gases from heavy green oxygen tanks stationed nearby, dispensed sustenance to the decaying body via a tangle of tubes. Tubes also drained bilious fluids into other bio-hazard receptacles. A tangle of wires stretched from a bank of gizmos to key points on his body. Each had a computer screen with multiple tiles reporting a different vital sign. Collectively, they mindlessly (THE DOUBLE ADVERBS COMPETE. GET RID OF ADVERBS WHENEVER POSSIBLE.) monitored their patient for any hint that something might be awry. Medicaments were machine-pumped automatically (ADVERB BORDERS ON REDUNDANT, SO I DOUBT IT'S NECESSARY), and with great precision, through flaccid skin marked with great purple splotches: Dark, ugly bruises that would not heal; would not have time to heal.
1) Because I don't know the genre or title, I'm not sure where this is going: could be thriller and this is a killing scene for all I know. But I can say that I've been pummeled with too much information about his medical treatment to even remember that there was some conversation re: power.
2) The "I" introduces the POV character, supposedly the hero/heroine. Then this character dissapears behind the tubes and machines. HOW this character sees these objects goes to characterization, yes, but don't let them get lost in the picture. You have 2 paragraphs to give me a feeling for them and make me care about them. I cared more about the machines. I doubt that's your intent.
3) Dialogue in first paragraph was good except the last. Dying man talking of power as his mouth is wiped like a baby is great juxtaposition. But again, it got lost with 2nd 'graph.
Yes, I'm sure the 3rd graph got more into the other character or plot or whatever. But this challenge is about hitting the key notes up front, not delaying them. You can do this!
Fair enough. I quibble over a few minor points, but the real test of editor/writer relationships revolves around the re-write. Do I get a second chance? It might be instructive for blog readers to see that interplay work itself through. I'm up for it if you're willing. What say you?
ReplyDeleteFYI, the genre would be political thriller and the working title 'Power Source'.
Absolutely rework it Robert, so we can see how the author works the clay this time. I would love that!
ReplyDeleteOkay, here is round two, see what you think.
ReplyDelete“Power isn’t getting the President to return your phone calls.” The old man wheezed. “Power is having your secretary get a number and tell him you’ll call back later, if it's convenient.” He choked up a particularly foul-looking chunky grey-brown slime. The nurse sitting at his bedside, wiped his mouth and chin carefully. "The President, hell--damn near everyone--needs me, more than I need them." He lapsed into silence to gather strength then peered at me with unsettling ferocity. "That's power, boy."
I regarded the old man at length. Even wizened and beset with ailments, he was a study in modern power brokering. So long as he clung to consciousness--however tenuously--the tentacles of his political clout extended far beyond the life-sustaining medicaments flowing with great precision into his skin. The tangle of wires stretching from key points on his body to a bank of gizmos reporting different vital signs was the perfect metaphor for the behemoth that was his vast web of influence. His flaccid skin was marked with great purple splotches: Dark, ugly bruises that would not heal; would not have time to heal. The old man was dying, and I was here to record his story, before the last grains of sand in his hourglass trickled away.