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Mistress Manners: Revision
Posted by callei on Saturday, July 12, 2003 - 04:10 AM PST

Theories
What we have here is an example. Some people try and try and try to rewrite things in an attempt to get me to post them. I give feedback when asked (and sometimes when I am not asked too!). I tried to help this author rework this piece. It didn't help, the article just got longer and less interesting, not matter what I said or what they did. I finally handed it to someone else and said "Can you find the story?". She decided to give it a try and that is what you can read under revisions.

I am making both public so that others can use her learning curve, sort of like a group date or something. At least you can all bond over hating me and thinking I don't know good writing when I see it.

I would like help getting across to the author that "Yee Olde English"(1) is a waste of effort, that one should have some small grasp on what a word means before you use it (2), and that prepositions and adverbs aren't confetti (3). I'm not even going to mention the defused and disparate time sense in the so-called verb usage. Split infinitives are not cool. And just for a parting shot, this is a poetry free arena (4). If you want to post poetry, then go to the poetry shooting gallery and put it there.

I can only be so nice for so long. Please, please, please put DOWN the thesaurus, pick up the dictionary, and try to learn how to write normally before you try to write fancifully.

  Goodbye, Merdael

  Oh Merdael, how (3) I still (3) stand over your grave every Christmas night (1). I still recall the times you held deep pride (2), glutted to (3) your demise (2), had unmatched lust (2), carried your problems onto (3) other people (2), usurped businesses from others (2), felt insecure as the people around you were merry (1), and struck those who blew your fuse (2). These memories will forever (3) be past (1), but will forever (3) cross my mind (1).

Have you not forgotten me (1), the one you ever so (3) loathed at (1) (3)?

Yes, I do remember the first day we met; the day that rain threatened to drop (1) on the streets of Brooklyn. I was middle-class (2) and you were an aristocrat (2), one that (3) was filled with so much pride (1). On (3) that day, you demanded, "Clean off (3) the mud from my shoes, it seems you are muddy enough!"

I looked at the mud on your feet, then up to you, smiling at the insecurity I saw in your eyes. You grew enraged with my insubordinate (2) behavior, causing you to scream, "Filthy wench (1) (2), out of my site you stand!" (1) (2) (3)

I chuckled and walked pass your pompous form.

The second day, I watched you in the shadows of the café (1). Predictably, you pushed people away (3) from your path (2) and threatened them with your resources and wrath. Sitting down, you demanded some (3) shrimp scampi with spaghetti, but the café had none. Unexpectedly (2), you screamed at the manager, insulting him in his café. When you finished mocking (2) the manager of the cafe, you spitted (2) in his face and proudly away. (3)

On the third day, you walked by my humble abode (1). The first person you ever (3) set eyes was on my daughter (1), one who was merely (3) sixteen winters old (1). But you cared not (1)" you wanted to feel her untouched bosom (1). I stepped in (3) between you and her to protect her from your touch and asked you kindly to leave my property. However (3), being the prideful man you were, you refused to do so. I repeated myself a bit harsher (2), but instead (2) (3) you pulled out a gun. Then (3) you shot my house and windows and left my daughter and I in ruin (1) (2). I frowned and embraced (2) her as you walked away (3).

When the fourth day came by (3), I was in the park, reading my book. You? Well, you were walking in the park, making your men fan you as you made sweat (1) (2). Utters (2) were heard (1), so I listened intently (2)(3) as (3) I heard one of your men complain, "Master, may I please take a break now? I been fanning you for hours!" But of course (1) (3), you would not fan yourself " you felt above it. My eyes widened as you took a knife and slit his throat and ended his life. You left his corpse instantly (2), being too proud to take responsibility. I frowned and closed my book, standing and walking away to look for help. What in the Heavens or Hells has lead to this?

Four days have passed since you spitted (2) on the grounds of the café. Opening a newspaper article (2), I read about you buying the land the café was set upon (1) (3). Not only did you do that (3); you ordered the café to be torn up (3). This made me wonder if this was done by (3) a grudge (2). I found you quite (3) the megalomaniac, but I did little (3) to budge (2).

It has been days, but you still (3) lusted for my daughter  you desired to take her virginity (2). <­ As a side note here, most people that have lovers are not virgins since sex is so often part of being lovers, as compared to being in love, or dating or having a crush on someone etc.> That day (2), my daughter came home in tears and told me of (3)the pain she could not bare (1); she told me that her lover (2) was dead and told me he was shot in the head. She described the stranger (2), described him with a profile that fitted (2) you (1). While your actions tampered (2) with my patience (2), I knew that I could not prove to the proper authorities that the murderer was you.

I came home from my daily routine one day to see my walls decorated in blood. With (3) further observation (2), I found the corpse of my daughter, naked and covered in blood. What she did to deserve such a fate (1)(2)(3)? Alas (3), I did not know (1), but I did take note of the knife in her violated body; I recognized it to be (3)(well sort of) the one you used to kill your servant. Tears flooded my eyes; my hate for you rose (1) (2)!

Weeks have passed since I buried my daughter. This night, however, you were with a trusted acquaintance (2). I watched in (3) a distance as you walked in an alley with him. You both disappeared from the naked eye (1). It was less than two minutes before I heard a gun shot that night, which made me wondered (2) where your shadows (2) had lead (ok I give in what is it with past tense becoming present tense mid sentence?) you that time. The man walked out of the alley and left the sheriff to investigate the events of that night.

Worry not, dear Merdael, I no longer hold wrath (2) for you (1). You'd like that too much, wouldn't you? Instead, I walk to your grave every Christmas night to remind you of your tragic (2) days and nights. Are you suffering, Merdael? Oh, I know you are suffering! After all, you paid (2) your due (1)(2), if not still paying for it now.

I part (2) now and leave you at rest (1); I think I gave you plenty of company tonight. Just remember that things come back in time. Goodbye, Merdael.

  NOTE: Hope this cleaned up the previous grammar errors that I had. If not, tell me what I'm doing wrong, heh. Thanks.

  Revision
  
   This revision, attempted by a brave member who shall remain anonymous, more clearly shows the story. Such as it is. It does clean out most of the poe-esque language attempts, the more bizarre verb tense issues, and gives a little dignity to the main character. But nothing can help the actual plot.

Oh, Merdael, I still stand over your grave every Christmas night. I still recall your pride and your unmatched desires. You infected others with your troubles, devoured businesses, and violently displayed your wrath. These memories will always plague my mind.

Have you forgotten me?

Rain threatened the streets of Brooklyn the day we first met. You were so arrogant; I expected nothing else when passing a member of the middle class like me. You demanded something of me, however, as you passed by: "Clean off the mud from my shoes, it seems you could use some more!"

I looked at the mud on your feet before meeting your eyes and smiling at the insecurity I saw. Enraged, you spat "Filthy wench, out of my sight!" as I chuckled and walked past.

The second day, I watched you in the shadows of the café. Predictably, you pushed people away and threatened them with your resources. As you sat you demanded some shrimp scampi with spaghetti, but they were out of shrimp. You screamed at the manager, insulting him in his café. When you finished you spat in his face and proudly walked away.

On the third day you walked by my humble abode and first saw my daughter. She had only seen sixteen winters, but you cared not; you wanted to feel her untouched bosom. Savoring the delicate meeting of flesh and bone, your insatiable eyes devoured her every curve. Of course I intervened: I needed to protect my daughter from men such as yourself. I asked you kindly to leave my property. However, being the prideful man you were, you refused. I repeated myself, more sternly this time. Instead you drew a gun and shot the windows out of my home, leaving my daughter and I in ruin. I could do nothing but frown and embrace her as you left.

When the fourth day came I was in the park reading a book. You were taking a stroll in that same park, making your servants fan you as you made sweat. I listened intently as I heard one of them complain "Master, may I please take a break now" I been fanning you for hours!" But of course, you would not deign to fan yourself. My eyes widened as I saw the knife. You then slit his throat then left his corpse in disdain, as if the site of your own work was beneath notice. I scowled and closed my book, walking away to look for help. What in the Heavens or Hells has lead to this?

Four days have passed since you spat on the grounds of the café. Opening a newspaper, I read that you bought the land and ordered the café demolished. Was this the fruition of some petty grudge? I knew you were a megalomaniac, and though it offended me I did nothing.

And you still desired my daughter. That day, she came home in tears and told me her love had been shot in the head. The person she described as the murderer could only have been you. I knew that I could do nothing although the pain was more than my daughter could bear.

A few days later I came home to see blood on my walls and my daughter lying naked on the floor. What did she do to deserve such a fate? The knife in her violated body was the same one used to kill your servant. Tears flooded my eyes and pain wracked my body. For all of my suffering I could only hate you more.

Weeks have passed since I buried my daughter. That night, however, you were with a trusted acquaintance and I watched in a distance as you walked down an alley with him. It was less than two minutes before I heard a shot ring. Where your shadows had lead you this time? The man walked out of the alley and left the remains.

Worry not, dear Merdael: the wrath I held for you has since calmed. Wouldn't you love to hear that I hated you? Instead, I walk to your grave every Christmas night to remind you. Are you suffering, Merdael? Oh, I know you are suffering! After all, you know your deeds, and pay for them now.

I am leaving now; I think I gave you enough company tonight. Just remember that things come back in time. Goodbye, Merdael.

  Please comment on the plot and the issues that you personally see in the structure and form of the story. Let this be a lesson to us all.




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Re: Revision
by feralucce on Jul 12, 2003 - 08:25 AM
(User info | Send a Message) http://feralucce.vibechild.com
the revision...is impressive...  I could make neither heads nor tales of the original, and the revision made it undnedrstandable...

it is an interesting concept... a letter to the dead... but I am confused on two points... why write a letter to the dead, when a monologue or soliloquy would have possibly been more effective?

and 2... am I mistaken or is there a reference to necrophelia right there at the end?

Feral

P.S. the original madee my eyes bleed


Re: Revision
by Shade (Shade@Gothcult.com)
on Jul 12, 2003 - 10:19 AM
(User info | Send a Message) http://www.hotelshade.com
Just a quick note: Callei is the tireless editor on this one and the revisor can remain nameless, I just ended up posting this one under my name by accident when Callei's computer went haywire at the last minute.


Re: Revision
by Meranda_Jade (Meranda@mymind.com)
on Jul 12, 2003 - 02:04 PM
(User info | Send a Message)
I think the brave person who tried to revise this, may have been trying too hard. I think that much of the original meaning of the story was lost in the process.

  First of all, I think it was meant to be in the style of an old Victorian novel. With this in mind, flowery prose is actually a necessity. I think the author did very well at portraying this style, though there were still a few glaring grammar and punctuation mistakes. Also, the parts that were awkward were cleaned up a bit, my apologies to the author if the intent was misrepresented. I hope this makes things more clear to all who read it.


Goodbye, Merdael

Oh Merdael, I still stand over your grave every Christmas night. I still recall the times you held deeply to your pride, glutted yourself to no end, lusted insatiably, thrust your problems onto others, usurped businesses, felt insecure as the people around you were merry, and struck those who ignited your fuse. These memories will forever be in the past, but will forever cross my mind.

Have you forgotten me, the one you loathed so much?

Yes, I do remember the first day we met; the day that rain threatened to fall on the streets of Brooklyn. I was middle-class and you were an aristocrat, filled with so much pride. On that day you demanded, "Clean the mud from my shoes, it seems you are muddy enough!"

I looked at the mud on your feet, then up to you, smiling at the insecurity I saw in your eyes. You grew enraged with my insubordinate behavior, causing you to scream, "Filthy wench, get out of my sight!"

I chuckled and walked past your pompous form.

The second day, I watched you in the shadows of the café. Predictably, you pushed people out of your path and threatened them with your wealth and wrath. Sitting down, you demanded some shrimp scampi with spaghetti, but the café had none. You screamed at the manager, insulting him in his café. When you finished mocking the manager of the cafe, you spat in his face and proudly walked away.

On the third day, you walked by my humble abode. The first person you set eyes on was my daughter, who was merely sixteen winters old, but you cared not. You wanted to feel her untouched bosom. I stepped between you and her to protect her from your touch and asked you kindly to leave my property. However, being the prideful man you were, you refused to do so. I repeated myself a bit more harshly, but you pulled out a gun. You shot my house and windows and left my daughter and I in ruins. I frowned and embraced her as you walked away.

When the fourth day came I was in the park, reading my book. You were walking in the park, making your men fan you as you perspired . I listened intently as I heard one of your men complain, "Master, may I please take a break now? I have been fanning you for hours!" Of course, you would not fan yourself; you felt you were above it. My eyes widened as you took a knife and slit his throat and ended his life. You left his corpse, too proud to take responsibility. I frowned and closed my book, and walked away to look for help. What in the Heavens or Hells has led to this?

Four days have passed since you spat on the ground in the café. Opening a newspaper, I read that you bought the land upon which the café stood. Not only did you do this, you ordered the café to be torn down. This made me wonder if this was done to satisfy a grudge. I found you to be quite the megalomaniac, but I did nothing.

It had been days, but you still lusted for my daughter; you desired to take her virginity . <­ As a side note here, during the time period in which I suspect this is set, a "lover" was one who was paying court to you. You did not have sex with them, thus could be a virgin. The same thing goes for the term "making love". It did not mean sex, it meant wooing.> That day, my daughter came home in tears and told me of the pain that she could not bear. She told me that her lover had been killed; he had been shot in the

Read the rest of this comment...



Re: Revision
by Squire-of-Gothos (Brian0049@hotmail.com)
on Jul 13, 2003 - 12:01 PM
(User info | Send a Message) http://
Victorian style or not, flowery prose are awfully nifty, but mostly when used properly. I'd love to hear a story that sounded like a computer manual a lot more than one that sounded like someone took a big list of "pretty" words they saw in an Edgar Allen Poe story, and played madlibs with them in some contrived story of theirs. Not that there was really anything wrong with the story, once the revision was done, it was quite an enjoyable read, and had the original author had the chance or the know how, I'm sure it could have been just as good, if not better. But the point remains the same: Sometimes, in a literary sense, people on this site can get too big for their britches. Then again, better to have braved the storm. After all, who am I to speak?


Re: Revision
by Monolycus on Jul 13, 2003 - 02:51 PM
(User info | Send a Message)
I'll get sniped for saying so, but I didn't think the initial version was all that unforgivably bad and I don't think the revision is faithful in content to the original. The original version was a little forced, but no more so than many pieces from authors still searching for their voice. I saw a few spelling and grammatical errors in it, but I also saw many of them in both the revision and the subsequent critiques (some of which were absolutely abominable, but I will draw enough fire without pointing them out specifically). I don't think this was a bad attempt.

It wasn't my understanding that we were supposed to adopt a uniform writing style and discourage experimentation here. If flowery and faux-archaic language are now literary sins, then I have two articles of my own floating around out there that should never have passed muster.

~M.


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