The Furious Spinner

Yesterday I wrote from about 9:00 a.m. until 9:00 p.m. I was working on a short story called "Pink." (I was sick all day, nauseated and dizzy, but the story kept me on the Amazon with my character Mata, so that was preferable than being prone on the couch groaning.) I thought you might be interested in the creative process regarding this particular story.

First, I started writing the story on a yellow pad, which I usually do. Generally as I get going, I start writing so fast that I can't read my own writing so then I go to the computer and start writing there. This first bit below is what I wrote on the yellow pad. The strike-throughs are what I crossed out as I went.

Mata dangled her fingers in the black water that flowed beneath their stilled houseboat. The water was cool and warm and spread throughout the forest like a liquid blanket opening at this time of year, reminding everyone—even the trees—that they had all once come from the Solimoes. A green red dragonfly flew close to her face, probably eyeing an errant insect in the white flower in her hair.

Suddenly, the water stirred —or rose only slightly. Mata's heart beat quickened. She knew she should take her hand out of the water before something took her hand. But she remained as still as the half-moon in the blue sky above her head.

The water was stained red. Like the blood she saw leaking from a dead caiman yesterday, dark and sticky. Or like her tongue after she chewed The red turned pink as it got closer to the surface of the water. Bubbles rose up around the red pink, like the fizz on the champagne her uncle Jaco had brought home to them once, after his divorce.

Then I typed it up—making some changes as I typed it—read it again, then did some more editing. Some of the changes were factual. I learned the water was more red than black where I set the story. Some were spelling errors. Most of the deletions were made to help the pacing. You can go slowly with a novel, but in a short story, you can't weigh it down with too many descriptions.

Mata dangled her fingers in the reddish water that flowed beneath her grandmother's wooden houseboat. The water was cool and warm at the same time. At this time of year, the river spread throughout the forest, reminding everyone—even the trees—that all had once come from Solimoes, the great Amazon river. A red dragonfly flew close to Mata's face, probably eying an errant insect in the white and pink orchid Mata had snatched from the river water as it floated by and which now decorated her hair. The river stirred slightly. Mata's heartbeat quickened as it always did when the pink dolphins were neared. She knew she should take her hand out of the waterSolimoes before something took her hand, but she remained as still as the half-moon that hung in the pale blue sky above her head like the half-shuddered eye of a lizard.

Part of the water was sunset-colored pink now. like the sunset-colored blood she saw leaking from a newly dead caiman yesterday after it mixed with the water on the floor. Bubbles floated up around the pink, like the fizz on the champagne her uncle Jack had brought home after his divorce last year.

This morning I made a few more changes—including a spelling error I didn't notice the first four times through the story. See if you can find it. I'll let this sit for several days, and then I'll look at it again and do some more rewriting.

Mata dangled her fingers in the lukewarm reddish water that flowed beneath her grandmother's wooden houseboat. A green dragonfly flew close to Mata's face, probably eying an errant insect in the white orchid Mata had snatched from the water as it floated by and which now decorated her hair. The river stirred slightly. Mata's heartbeat quickened as it always did when the pink dolphins neared. She knew she she should take her hand out of the Solimoes before something took her hand, but she remained as still as the half-moon that hung in the pale blue sky above her head like the shuttered eye of a lizard.

Part of the water was sunset pink now. Bubbles floated up around the pink, like the fizz on the champagne her uncle Jaco had brought home after his divorce last year. 0 comments

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