Editing...I've finally found the joy.

You know, I have never loved editing. Never, I was much more into the free flowing spirit of the first draft. Where I can sit down at the computer and let my fingers do the walking. I was scared to edit. What did I know? Well, I'm learning folks. Teaching yourself is always hard going. Tweak a word here add a more descriptive word there, but it's kind of like a game now.

A writing friend of mine suggested one day while we were drinking our coffee that we play a description game. Of course, I hesitated, and for a while I couldn't get the old gray matter to work properly. But after a few examples it got to be fun...Okay describe your front door.

Michelle's description: A brick red six paneled metal door, the paint chipping and peeling from the direct heat of the afternoon sun.

Big Bird's description of Michelle's door: A small red metal door that squeaks when you open it. Golly, I'll have to bend and touch my toes just to get into Michelle's house. Ouch, hey what was that? I didn't see that pane of glass there. Maybe I should get glasses. You know, Birds hate windows.

Oscar the Grouch: It's a red door. It should have some nice green graffiti on that door to dress it up. It's plain, and who wants a shiny brass knocker. I'd rip that knocker off the door, I don't want anyone to come visit. Where's my can of spray paint. I can fix this door, then nobody will bother Michelle! Ha! Then she'll get her writing done!

Bert and Ernie:
Ernie: Do de do, where's the door.
Bert: It's right in front of you. Can't you see it. Wow, they need to repaint that door. Look you can see the metal through the peeling paint. And look at all the dings.
Ernie: Just open the door Bert. Who cares what it looks like?
Bert: Maybe we should help her, she's always very busy.

Well, as you can see. I can get carried away with my little description games, but it's helped. Here is a paragraph from the prologue of "Kiss from a Rose" a little more description added to make it more clear in the readers eye...


Hundreds of fragrant white roses, in full bloom, swayed in the soft spring air. A young woman kneeled in the heart of the garden and tended her roses. Sturdy leather gloves protected her hands from the prickly thorns, which would draw blood if she wasn't careful. A mangled straw hat, frayed at the edges sat perched atop her head to keep the bright southern sun from her fair skin.

The buzzing of bees, a young mother robin's chirpy song to her young floated on the cool clean spring breeze. The sweet delicate aroma of roses meshed with the smell of fresh rich dirt and wafted up from the ground where she kneeled. An old oval wicker basket sat at her feet while she painstakingly gathered blooms for drying. She would hang them upside down in the house to dry and enjoy their aroma through the next winter. Scooting sideways on her knees to the next bush she sat back on her heels at the strange sight in front of her.
A lone red rose grew in the middle of a sea of creamy white. The only bud on the bush, its petals the color of scarlet, this one rose had beaten the odds. She'd never heard of a rose changing color, but the proof stood right in front of her eyes. She took off her glove and reached out with her finger to trace the curve of the bloom. Perfect, the leaves barely unfurled she let the satiny velvet surface of the petal curl over her finger. Her lips turned up into a smile.

Hopefully, it works...you don't want to see the original version.
Hugs,
Michelle