Editing for pace

This next piece comes from Mary J. It’s not the beginning of a book, but Mary suspected this scene was slowing things down. Her main character is a teacher. In this scene, she’s just coming home from the first day of school.

My comments are in blue again, but this time, the author's words I want to call attention to are in red.

***

Maggie was weary, but still pumped up from her day, as she pulled into the lane that wound through tall evergreens to a small yellow cottage. It beckoned with a quaint warmth and welcome, glowing like a miniature ball of sun against the velvet of dark green firs and cedars. The roof rose to a steep peak and a porch bejeweled with white gingerbread trim stretched across the front of the house. [not sure of word choice—the comparison of gingerbread trim to a jewel doesn’t work for me]

She had worked long hours all summer to complete its transformation. It bore no resemblance to the derelict rising up out of a tangle of blackberry vines she had discovered a year ago when she first came to Fir Island.

That first day, coming upon the abandoned house, dull and dirty with peeling paint, she had almost passed it by, but then a glimmer of blue water beckoned her beyond the weeds and alder trees. Struggling through vines and underbrush, she had pushed aside low branches, drawn by the gentle lapping water of a hidden saltwater cove. Douglas firs and alders encircled a pocket of sandy beach. Diamonds of sunlight danced on blue water, wisps of cotton clouds hovered above.

Sitting down in the warm sand, Maggie had felt still and calm. There was promise, possibility, and hope in the air in this secluded spot. Peace drifted through the twinkling leaves of the alders.

Emerging from her reverie, she rose, knowing this was the refuge she had sought. Recently graduated from the University of Kansas, she had come as far west as she could to Washington state. She wanted to leave behind the struggles of putting herself through college and the troubles of her childhood.

The banging of an ancient screen door drew her back through the weeds and blackberries to the house. Coming up the sagging back steps, she turned the old brass doorknob and pushed the door open. [This is a great example of when not to use an –ing sentence. This construction says things are happening simultaneously. She cannot possibly be turning the doorknob at the same time she’s walking up the steps.] Enveloped by dust and cobwebs, she hesitated before making her way through the house. Her heart sank at the sight of trash, beer cans, and broken furniture scattered throughout. It really was hopeless. But then the memory of the cove challenged her to look about with renewed interest. Elbow grease and lots of work might make a difference. Just maybe she could clean up the trash and make this place livable.

Maggie found Tom Collins, the realtor who was handling the property, sitting behind a cluttered desk. Collins ran a hand through thinning, faded brown hair as he listened to her ask [she asked] him about the house and property.

He explained, “Old Mrs. Owens owns the house. She broke her hip two years ago and then had a stroke, forcing her to stay in a nursing home on the mainland. The house was rented the first summer but then it was vandalized and has gone down hill since.”

“Would you be willing to rent it now?”

“I don’t know, it’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t think we can put that much into it to get it ready.”

Maggie had jumped in, “If you could have someone cut down the blackberries, I can do the rest. I’m not afraid of work. I can handle a hammer and broom. I’ll have all summer to work on it before school starts.”

Collins had studied the young woman who exuded energy and enthusiasm. At the brink of fifty, his days of that kind of energy were waning. Her energy lit a spark in him. [This is Maggie’s memory. She can’t know his thoughts.]

"Okay, I'll get someone down there to clean out the blackberries. Let's see what we can figure out."

"The inside will need painting. Can I deduct the cost of paint from the rent?"

"Sure, turn in your receipts when you pay the rent. I'll get electricity and water turned on. It will be good to see someone taking care of that place again. The Owens were good people. Ed taught music at the high school and Agnes was the town librarian for years. They never had children of their own, but they knew and cared about all the island kids. Ed died and then Agnes continued at the library until she broke her hip." [Too much information]

"You said Mrs. Owens is in a nursing home on the mainland, if she doesn't have children, who goes to see her?"

"I doubt if anyone sees her now. When the house was bringing in rent I would deposit it and send her a note now and then."

"Maybe I could go see her, I bet she would like to know who is living there and fixing it up."

"Good idea. I’ll drop her a line and tell her about you."

That first summer was full and demanding. Maggie worked evenings waiting tables at the inn located across from the ferry landing. Every spare minute was devoted to cleaning and fixing up the house.

Now Maggie paused at the front porch. She had become acquainted with Agnes Owens and with her approval and financial help, had transformed the little house. She had worked day and night this past year [I thought it was only the summer] to bring it to this point. {A new roof had replaced the old leaky one. Fresh trim and paint had transformed the ugly duckling house into a swan. Window boxes full of cherry red geraniums and white wicker chairs beckoned one to sit and enjoy. She had refinished the oak door and it glowed with its oval glass and polished brass fittings.} [Shorten the section in brackets.]

Inside, the front room was luminous, with sunlight filtering through white lace curtains. Wood floors gleamed. Faded rugs added softness and warmth. She had restored some of Mrs. Owen's antique pieces and collected a few of her own. A small fireplace with overstuffed chairs and books close by was ready for crisp autumn evenings. The other end of the room was dominated by a round oak dining table and a cupboard with glass doors containing china dishes. Ferns and green plants brought grace and charm to the room. The kitchen and bathroom still need new linoleum but they sparkled [again, not sure of word choice] with fresh paint and bright braided rugs. Her bedroom was small but tranquil with a Victorian bed covered in old quilts. A glimpse of blue water could be seen from the bedroom window.

[I can’t quite put my finger on it, but this last paragraph didn’t flow for me. When I look at each sentence individually, it’s good description. But all together, something isn’t quite right. Maybe there’s too much description for my tastes, or maybe the style is a bit too repetitive. Anyone else have any opinions?]

***

My verdict is yes, the scene would slow down the story too much. Let's briefly take a look at why. First of all, the book is really about Maggie's interaction with a first grade student she suspects is being abused. Although I haven't read the beginning, I suspect Maggie has already noticed something is wrong with the little girl before we come upon this scene.

The reader will want to move forward, not be brought back in time to see how Maggie restored her house. Although that sort of thing is interesting to me, and I think it would be a charming beginning, Mary wisely started her book where the plot actually begins.

Second, even if the reader wanted to see how Maggie restored the cottage, I don't think they'd have patience for a conversation with the realtor.

I was confused about the timeline. In a couple of places she says it took her all summer to fix up the house, and in other places she says a year. It's probably one of those inconsistencies that happen with editing--changing your mind about the time, but not every mention of time is caught and changed.

This is the scene where she's describing this charming cottage, and it's part of Maggie's character that she was willing to work so hard to restore it. So let's see what we can salvage.

~~~

Maggie was weary, but still pumped up from her day, as she pulled into the lane that wound through tall evergreens to a small yellow cottage. It beckoned with a quaint warmth and welcome, glowing like a miniature ball of sun against the velvet of dark green firs and cedars. The roof rose to a steep peak and a porch with white gingerbread trim stretched across the front of the house.

It bore no resemblance to the derelict rising up out of a tangle of blackberry vines she had discovered when she first came to Fir Island. She had almost passed it by, but then a glimmer of blue water beckoned her beyond the weeds and alder trees. Drawn by the gentle lapping water, she had struggled through underbrush and low branches to find a hidden saltwater cove. Douglas firs and alders encircled a pocket of sandy beach. Diamonds of sunlight danced on blue water, wisps of cotton clouds hovered above.

Sitting down in the warm sand, Maggie had felt still and calm. There was promise, possibility, and hope in the air in this secluded spot. Peace drifted through the twinkling leaves of the alders, and she knew this was the refuge she sought.

Maggie had made a deal with the owner, Agnes Owens, and lived there rent free while she fixed up the house. It had taken all summer to get it to this point. A new roof, fresh trim and paint, window boxes full of red geraniums, and white wicker chairs on the porch.

Inside, sunlight filtered through white lace curtains, making the wood floors gleam. She had restored some of Mrs. Owen's antique pieces and collected a few of her own. A small fireplace surrounded by overstuffed chairs and books stood ready for crisp autumn evenings. The other end of the room was dominated by a round oak dining table and a china cabinet. Braided rugs and plants brought softness and charm to the room.

But her favorite room was the bedroom. Small but tranquil, it offered a glimpse of blue water from its window. Her refuge.

~~~

Only my opinion. Any description details I skipped could be brought in through action later. And I'm not sure how important Agnes will be to the story, so I couldn't judge how much of her to leave in. But I hope I offered some useful tips.