{"id":4949,"date":"2017-06-14T13:55:31","date_gmt":"2017-06-14T11:55:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/?p=4949"},"modified":"2017-06-14T13:55:31","modified_gmt":"2017-06-14T11:55:31","slug":"an-excerpt-re-written","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/4949\/","title":{"rendered":"An Excerpt Re-Written"},"content":{"rendered":"

I took on board the advice I received when I posted the excerpt<\/a> from my book in May and am in the process of rewriting the whole lot. In particular I am trying to, as commenters dearieme and Andrew suggested, build the descriptions as the action occurs, not alongside it. More importantly, I realised it is overwritten and my efficiency of words was poor (which is probably not surprising for a first draft), and I was spoon-feeding the reader with too much information.<\/p>\n

I don’t find this rewriting particularly difficult as such – I understand what I have to do – but it does take concentration, more than writing the first draft did. If you have to check every word for suitability and necessity, it only takes a few paragraphs before you’re skimming and not doing the job properly. I have found myself having to read and re-read the same passages a dozen times or more. Of course, there may be other things I need to do with it which I’m not yet aware of and may prove more difficult again, and I am sure at least one more rewrite will be required before it goes in front of an editor.<\/p>\n

The word count is tumbling: the first draft was about 98k words and it’s already down to 87k and I’m only halfway through the rewrite. Anyway, yesterday I re-wrote the passage which I posted as an excerpt back in May, taking it from 4,014 words to 2,671 (a reduction of a third). Not quite the 50% which commenter James Hoskins implied, but close enough.<\/p>\n

Anyway, the re-written passage is below. Feedback, no matter how brutal, is welcome: I found the last lot to be of tremendous help.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The next weekend we went to a birthday party thrown by a Russian artist called Ruslan. Katya knew him only vaguely, but well enough to secure an invitation for both of us. We arrived at what he called his gallery, stepping right off the pavement into an empty retail unit. A heavily-built man with a black beard who\u2019d been setting out food on a collapsible table saw us and strode over, his footsteps echoing off the bare concrete floor.<\/p>\n

He greeted Katya in Russian, they kissed, and he shook my hand. \u2018I\u2019m Ruslan,\u2019 he said.<\/p>\n

I replied to him in Russian which surprised him.<\/p>\n

\u2018You speak Russian?\u2019 he asked me.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n

\u2018Where do you know it from?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I lived there for a while.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Very good!\u2019 he said, grinning through his beard. He looked slightly Arabic and I guessed he was from the Caucasus somewhere, possibly Dagestan.<\/p>\n

\u2018Thanks,\u2019 I said. Katya simpered a little beside me.<\/p>\n

A young woman who had been helping Ruslan at the table joined us. \u2018You remember Natasha, don\u2019t you?\u2019 said Katya, addressing me.<\/p>\n

\u2018Of course,\u2019 I said, and shook her by the hand. \u2018We met at the Tate Modern.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Right!\u2019 said Natasha smiling, adding a hint of beauty to an otherwise plain face. She was dressed like a student in a denim skirt with green tights and trainers, but I guessed she was around twenty-seven.<\/p>\n

The three Russians talked in their language for a few minutes, too fast for me to follow. Wooden frames hung on the walls covered in bubble wrap, protecting the masterpieces underneath. I wandered over to the table, my shadow dancing under the glare of nasty strip-lighting suspended from the ceiling. Sliced vegetables, dips, and a whole load of Mediterranean stuff people from Wigan don\u2019t eat was being laid out, a task our entrance had disturbed. A makeshift bar stood nearby and Ruslan called across for me to help myself.<\/p>\n

\u2018What do you want?\u2019 I asked Katya.<\/p>\n

\u2018Red wine, if there is any.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018There is,\u2019 I said, and poured some from an opened bottle into a small glass. I took a bottle of beer for myself and returned to the group. More people arrived and Ruslan went to meet them, leaving Natasha to finish preparing the food. Katya lent a hand and the two gossiped in Russian.<\/p>\n

Within half an hour a good thirty people were there and everyone was enjoying themselves, Ruslan included. I wondered if he was going to unveil his artwork, and when I thought nobody was looking I snuck a peek under the bubble wrap by tearing at a loose corner. Underneath there was nothing but the wooden frame. I walked over to another one, peering into a small hole in the wrapping. Same thing. Ruslan was about as productive as the local council.<\/p>\n

I sought out Katya, who was talking to Natasha and a tall, scruffy-looking man wearing baseball shoes which looked as though they\u2019d been left outside to rot. I introduced myself and he said, \u2018I\u2019m Ken.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Where are you from?\u2019 I asked him.<\/p>\n

\u2018London,\u2019 he said, giving me a friendly grin. \u2018How about you?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Wigan originally, but I live in London now.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Cool,\u2019 he said, nodding. \u2018How do you know Ruslan?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I don\u2019t, I only met him tonight. I came with Katya,\u2019 I said, lifting my chin towards her.<\/p>\n

Ken hesitated for a fraction of a second. \u2018Oh, are you her boyfriend?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 I said tentatively. A tingling sensation ran across my scalp and it wasn\u2019t nice.<\/p>\n

\u2018Okay, cool. I heard she\u2019d started seeing somebody.\u2019<\/p>\n

Something in my stomach shifted. \u2018You know her?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, we\u2019ve met a few times. I\u2019m Natasha\u2019s boyfriend.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Right!\u2019 I said, blurting it out which caused Ken to give me a funny look. I was worried he\u2019d tell me they\u2019d met in the dungeon of an S&M club. I suddenly needed a stronger drink but beer was all they had except for wine, which I don\u2019t like. For a Russian party there was a distinct lack of vodka.<\/p>\n

Ken and I chatted about sport for a while, then Katya and Natasha joined us. Katya looked excited about something.<\/p>\n

\u2018Hey,\u2019 she said. \u2018Natasha has just told me there\u2019s a Burning Man festival in Holland at the end of July.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Cool!\u2019 said Ken, then asked Katya, \u2018Are you gonna go?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019d like to,\u2019 said Katya, looking at me. \u2018We should all go!\u2019<\/p>\n

I smirked but said nothing.<\/p>\n

\u2018What?\u2019 said Katya, disappointed. \u2018You don\u2019t want to go?\u2019<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u2018Nah. It\u2019s not my thing, you know that.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018But you don\u2019t know what it\u2019ll be like,\u2019 she protested. \u2018I think you\u2019d really like it.\u2019<\/p>\n

I kept my tone pleasant. \u2018Katya, I\u2019m not going to Burning Man. I know what festivals are like, I\u2019m not completely thick. I\u2019m just not into them.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s a shame,\u2019 she said, giving me another disappointed look. \u2018I think it would be good to go together.\u2019<\/p>\n

Anyone who knew me as well as Katya would have to be pretty dim to think I would enjoy Burning Man. She could be a bit dense at times, unable to grasp things I thought were obvious, and this was one of those times. But I appreciated she was trying to find things for us to do together. Burning Man meant a lot to her, and it would have been a bit churlish to get grumpy over her making an effort to involve me in her life. I tried to let her down gently.<\/p>\n

We had turned slightly away from the others so the conversation was just between the two of us.<\/p>\n

\u2018Okay, I\u2019m assuming there is going to be a shitload of drugs there,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n

\u2018Maybe,\u2019 she said with a shrug, smiling.<\/p>\n

\u2018Uh-huh,\u2019 I said sarcastically. \u2018Maybe. And you know I don\u2019t do drugs. So what am I supposed to do while you\u2019re off your head being chased around the fields by six-foot toothbrush men?\u2019<\/p>\n

She laughed. \u2018It\u2019s not like that. You can – well, you can do whatever you want! That\u2019s the whole point, it\u2019s really open and – \u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Katya,\u2019 I said gently, cutting her off. \u2018I\u2019m not gonna go. I\u2019m quite happy for you to go with your friends, and do whatever you want, really I\u2019m okay with it. In fact, I\u2019m glad that have your own interests. But we\u2019ll have to find something else to do together.\u2019<\/p>\n

I thought she\u2019d given up but she gave it one last shot.<\/p>\n

\u2018You know, my Israeli ex-boyfriend was just like you. He said he wasn\u2019t interested in Burning Man but I persuaded him to go and he ended up loving it.\u2019 I kept quiet, and she went on. \u2018And when we split up he went back the next year by himself.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Katya,\u2019 I said softly. \u2018I\u2019m not him. Sorry, but I\u2019m a different person.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I know,\u2019 she said, and smiled. She stood on tiptoes and kissed me on the lips. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.<\/p>\n

\u2018What happened with you guys? The Israeli, I mean. Why did you split up?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, we started having problems,\u2019 she said. \u2018He was working really hard, training to be a lawyer and studying for the bar exam. He wasn\u2019t interested in going out at all, whereas I wanted to party and meet people.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018He was a bit older, right?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018A few years, yeah.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I guess you were at different stages of your life.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I suppose so. We had some issues, anyway.\u2019 Katya didn\u2019t seem to mind talking about this but she wasn\u2019t surrendering many details.<\/p>\n

\u2018But you stayed friends afterwards?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah, for a while anyway.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You\u2019re not any more? Is he still in New York?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No. He lost his job during the financial crisis and got really depressed, so moved back to Israel. We somehow lost touch, but I heard he got married.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018So how did you get into Burning Man?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I read about it when I was in Russia and really wanted to go. Then when I moved to New York I persuaded my boyfriend, the Israeli, to come as well. Like I said, he didn\u2019t want to but he ended up really liking it.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018So who did you go back there with after you guys separated?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, the first time we went I met all these really cool people from New York, so afterwards I started hanging out with them. I\u2019m still friends with them now.\u2019<\/p>\n

I nodded as another piece of Katya\u2019s past slid into place.<\/p>\n

I chatted with Ruslan and another guy for a while, then went over to the food where a stick-thin, flat-chested girl in a brown wollen dress loitered.<\/p>\n

\u2018Would you like anything?\u2019 she asked. Her voice was tiny with a pronounced Russian accent.<\/p>\n

I switched to Russian just to show off. \u2018Yes please. What do you have?\u2019<\/p>\n

She giggled nervously and waved her hands over the spread. \u2018What you see,\u2019 she said, replying in Russian. She looked about twelve, from which I deduced she was around twenty. She handed me a paper plate and I started helping myself.<\/p>\n

\u2018What do you do in London?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m in school.\u2019<\/p>\n

I stopped grabbing food and looked at her. She was wearing a wedding ring on a tiny, bony finger of the left hand, where most Europeans wear it. If her husband was Russian it would have been on the right. \u2018You\u2019re in school?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Art school.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, you\u2019re an artist?\u2019<\/p>\n

She giggled again. \u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You like it here, in London?\u2019 I put what I hoped was a pork pie on my plate, knowing full well it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Where are you from in Russia?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Saint Petersburg.\u2019 She spoke so quietly I could hardly hear her over the background chatter.<\/p>\n

\u2018Okay. Nice.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you know it?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, I\u2019ve been twice.\u2019<\/p>\n

She put her hands together in front of her as if she were shy and gave me a come-hither look. I half-expected her to ask me to spank her. Instead she asked, \u2018Did you go during summer?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, during the White Nights.\u2019 She giggled again. \u2018What\u2019s so funny?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n

She looked down at her shoes, then back up at me. \u2018I like your accent. Your Russian is so nice.\u2019<\/p>\n

Now it was my turn to blush. \u2018Oh, thanks,\u2019 I said awkwardly. I decided I\u2019d gathered enough food to live on for a while, and I had no intention of eating it around childlike sirens from Saint Petersburg.<\/p>\n

\u2018It was nice to meet you,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n

\u2018It was nice to meet you too,\u2019 she said, and half waved at me.<\/p>\n

I munched my way through things I couldn\u2019t name and didn\u2019t like then threw most of it in a bin, feeling a little bad about the wastage. I helped myself to another beer and stood on my own until Katya came up to me.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m going outside for a cigarette,\u2019 she said. \u2018Do you want to join me?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Sure,\u2019 I replied.<\/p>\n

It was warm enough to stand outside without a coat for short periods, but Katya, who was hopeless in the cold, was shivering already. I put my arm around her and held her close, the cigarette smoke rising in my face whenever she put it to her lips. Katya noticed and fanned the fumes away.<\/p>\n

\u2018Sorry,\u2019 she said. \u2018Is it bothering you?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Not at all. Are you having fun in there?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am, yes. You?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s not bad. There are some interesting people here,\u2019 I said, really meaning they were weird. \u2018Did you look at the pictures on the wall?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No,\u2019 said Katya slowly, looking at me suspiciously as if I was about to let her in on a prank.<\/p>\n

\u2018I did. There\u2019s nothing there. It\u2019s just frames covered with bubble-wrap.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh! Well maybe he\u2019ll put something up later?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Uh-huh,\u2019 I replied cynically. \u2018It would be most unlike an artist to have produced fuck-all, wouldn\u2019t it?\u2019 I immediately felt bad: I was at Ruslan\u2019s birthday party, drinking his beer and chucking his food in the bin. \u2018Okay,\u2019 I said, apparently arguing with myself. \u2018I\u2019ll stop.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Katya humourously. \u2018Please do.\u2019<\/p>\n

A portly man in his fifties wearing a black turtleneck and thick plastic glasses stepped outside and hovered with a cigarette between his fingers before asking Katya for a light.<\/p>\n

\u2018Are you French?\u2019 asked Katya, picking up on his accent.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 said the man. \u2018Where are you from?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018New York,\u2019 she said. \u2018Are you an artist?\u2019<\/p>\n

He nodded. \u2018Yes, I am a film producer.\u2019 I believed him. If anyone were to design a French film producer using only stereotypes, they\u2019d come up with this guy. \u2018And you?\u2019 he asked Katya.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, I\u2019m an artist,\u2019 she said, nodding slightly.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes?\u2019 said the Frenchman, raising an eyebrow.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, a photographer.\u2019<\/p>\n

He pulled a dismissive face; I guessed he met a lot of photographers in his line of work. He looked at me, as if noticing me for the first time. \u2018What about you? Are you an artist?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m a biscuit designer,\u2019 I said evenly. Katya\u2019s face swivelled upwards to glare at me.<\/p>\n

\u2018A what?\u2019 he asked, furrowing his brow and turning his head as if he wanted to hear better.<\/p>\n

\u2018A biscuit designer,\u2019 I repeated. \u2018I design biscuits.\u2019<\/p>\n

The man\u2019s face turned from confusion to mild annoyance.<\/p>\n

Katya had heard enough and intervened. \u2018He\u2019s joking. He\u2019s a chemist, aren\u2019t you?\u2019 she said in a tone that implied I was expected to tell the truth from now on.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 I conceded. \u2018I\u2019m really an industrial chemist.\u2019<\/p>\n

The Frenchman glowered at me, dropped his cigarette on the floor where it stayed smoking, and marched back inside the gallery without another word. I can\u2019t say I blamed him.<\/p>\n

\u2018He seemed fun,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n

Katya unwound my arm from around her and stepped back. At least she was laughing too. \u2018Why did you say that? Where did that come from?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I dunno, I was just taking the piss. Anyway, you told him you were an artist.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I am!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You are?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes! Photography is an art!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah, but you\u2019re not a photographer, you\u2019re a translator.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Now I am, yes. But I was a photographer, and I still do photography.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018So you consider yourself an artist on the basis of that?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, why not?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I dunno. Did you ever do it professionally?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I have done, yes. I worked freelance for a while.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Okay,\u2019 I said. I wasn\u2019t convinced but I had no interest in arguing. \u2018Are any of your professional photos online? I might have seen some of them.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yeah, there are some I took at a book launch that I did for a friend in New York. And the ones from my Caribbean trip.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, that wasn\u2019t a holiday?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No,\u2019 she said. \u2018It was a tour being organised by some Russians and they needed a translator and photographer, and so I went along.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I see. That must have been fun. Was that where the photo of you holding a monkey was taken?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What photo of me holding a monkey?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s a photo of you holding a monkey. At least, I think it\u2019s you. I\u2019m pretty sure it\u2019s a monkey. Or maybe it\u2019s an ex-boyfriend?\u2019<\/p>\n

Katya slapped me playfully on the arm. \u2018Are you sure? I don\u2019t remember any photo with a monkey.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll dig it out when we get home,\u2019 I said. \u2018You\u2019ll see.\u2019<\/p>\n

Katya finished her cigarette, dropped it on the pavement, and we went inside.<\/p>\n

After an hour we were back on the street, saying goodbye to Ruslan and thanking him for his hospitality. I looked over his shoulder and saw the waif in the woollen dress with her arm around the Frenchman. He was engaged in conversation with two men, seemingly oblivious to his young wife next to him. I snorted a laugh.<\/p>\n

\u2018What?\u2019 said Katya, looking at me puzzled.<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s nothing,\u2019 I said, still smiling.<\/p>\n

I shook Ruslan\u2019s hand, thanked him again, and said goodbye. Katya put her arm through mine and we walked towards the Underground.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I took on board the advice I received when I posted the excerpt from my book in May and am in the process of rewriting the whole lot. In particular I am trying to, as commenters dearieme and Andrew suggested, … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[91],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4949"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4949"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4949\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4950,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4949\/revisions\/4950"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4949"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4949"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.desertsun.co.uk\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4949"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}