In what will be a new type of post that I am adding to the Rewwritten Word, I’m going to be taking passages from existing material (mostly using a few paragraphs from a given novel) and modifying them with different editing choices.  I want to be very clear from the outset that none of my changes are intended to make the passages strictly better.  My ego is not so great to allow me to think I will always rewrite everything for the better.

Instead, the intent is to show, as an exercise, how choices in revising your writing can affect the feel, pace, and impression on the reader.  My hope is that by looking at these choices, we can see how an editing tree can be followed so that you can think more critically about your own work, whether you are writing fiction or working on a thesis.  The writing process is as much, if not more, an editing process.

My first victim is the opening passage to The White Moll by Frank L Packard, published in 1920 and now available through project Gutenberg.  One of the things I admire about many works of this period is an emphatic need to experiment with description, simile, and fragmented sentences.  F Scott Fitzgerald, for instance, showed us that the old, tired “he said” and “she said” dialogue could be transformed into more interesting forms like “he said dully” and “she said wryly”.  The lesson to learn from this period is that you can make your characters more than robots by embracing a bit of flair and emotion in all things.

With that in mind, my changes to the opening lines of the White Moll are oddly conservative.  I approached the language with a scalpel, attempting to make the lines more efficient.  Some of the flair is lost, and the feel should be very different, perhaps more compact.  But, again, my changes are just different choices, perhaps no better and no worse.

The Opening Lines of The White Moll as Written

It was like some shadowy pantomime: The dark mouth of an alleyway thrown into murky relief by the rays of a distant street lamp…the swift, forward leap of a skulking figure…a girl’s form swaying and struggling in the man’s embrace. Then, a pantomime no longer, there came a half threatening, half triumphant oath; and then the girl’s voice, quiet, strangely contained, almost imperious:

“Now, give me back that purse, please. Instantly!” The man, already retreating into the alleyway, paused to fling back a jeering laugh.

“Say, youse’ve got yer nerve, ain’t youse!”

The girl turned her head so that the rays of the street lamp, faint as they were, fell full upon her, disclosing a sweet, oval face, out of which the dark eyes gazed steadily at the man.

And suddenly the man leaned forward, staring for an instant, and then his hand went awkwardly to touch his cap.

“De White Moll!” he mumbled deferentially. He pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes in a sort of shame-faced way, as though to avoid recognition, and, stepping nearer, returned the purse.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said uneasily. “I didn’t know it was youse—honest to Gawd, I didn’t! ‘Scuse me, miss. Good-night!”

For a moment the girl stood there motionless, looking down the alleyway after the retreating figure. From somewhere in the distance came the rumble of an elevated train. It drowned out the pound of the man’s speeding footsteps; it died away itself—and now there was no other sound. A pucker, strangely wistful, curiously perturbed, came and furrowed her forehead into little wrinkles, and then she turned and walked slowly on along the deserted street.

The White Moll! She shook her head a little. The attack had not unnerved her. Why should it? It was simply that the man had not recognized her at first in the darkness. The White Moll here at night in one of the loneliest, as well as one of the most vicious and abandoned, quarters of New York, was as safe and inviolate as—as—She shook her head again. Her mind did not instantly suggest a comparison that seemed wholly adequate. The pucker deepened, but the sensitive, delicately chiseled lips parted now in a smile. Well, she was safer here than anywhere else in the world, that was all.

My Rewrite of The White Moll

It was like some scene out of a cheap dime novel: The yawning mouth of an alleyway thrown into murky relief by the rays of a distant street lamp…the swift, forward leap of a skulking figure…a smallish girl reeling and struggling in an oafish man’s embrace. Then, the girl’s voice, quiet, strangely contained, broke the cold dewy air:

“Now, give me back that purse…please!”

The man, already retreating into the alleyway, paused to fling back a jeering laugh.

“Say, you got nerve, ain’t you!”

The girl turned so that the rays of the street lamp, faint as they were, fell full upon her face, displaying a sweet, oval portrait, out of which her dark eyes gazed steadily at the man.

And suddenly the man started walking back to her, a all the while awkwardly tugging at his cap as though everything in the world might make more sense if the cap was positioned correctly.

“De White Moll!” he mumbled deferentially, as he pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes, as though to avoid further recognition, and, stepping even nearer still, returned the purse.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said uneasily. “I didn’t know it was youse—honest to Gawd, I didn’t! ‘Scuse me, miss. Good-night!”

For a moment the girl stood there motionless, looking down the alleyway after the retreating figure. From somewhere in the distance came the rumble of a tired old train. It drowned out the patter of the man’s speeding footsteps as he retreated with the little dignity left to a failed thief. A curious twitch furrowed her forehead into little wrinkles, and then she turned and walked slowly on along the now deserted street.

The White Moll! She shook her head a little. The attack had not unnerved her. Why should it? It was simply that the man had not recognized her at first in the darkness. The White Moll here at night in the loneliest, and most vicious, quarter in New York, was nevertheless as inviolate as—as—She shook her head again. Her mind did not instantly suggest a comparison that seemed wholly adequate. The twitch deepened, but the delicately chiseled lips parted now in a smile. Well, she was safer here than anywhere else in the world, that was all.