Declunking

It's that special time of year...the Dead Zone. Okay, not really. But this is the last day most of the agencies are open, and I won't be able to be obsessively checking my email every thirty seconds. I guess that's a good thing. I have some work to do, anyhow. My editing work for the next few days includes declunking dialogue.

Here's an example:
Un-declunked original version:

I continued.  “But he was a mean drunk. Anything could set him off. It was very important to him that I be perfect, since I was representing him and the Houldson name. Once we moved up to New Hampshire, I had to have my clothes perfectly matched, play every sport, get straight As. He didn’t like it when I failed to perform to his standards. One time, I guess I was about twelve, I tripped on stage in a ballet recital. I was at the back of a big group, so I really hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did. In the car, on the way home, Mom gushed about how cute I looked in my costume and how wonderful I was, but Stephen drove in silence. I guess I knew what was coming.

“When we got home, Mom changed and went to work. As soon as her car left the driveway, Stephen was hollering my name. He had this odd way of saying it, raising his voice on the last syllable. ‘Jenn-AH!’ he yelled. ‘Get your clumsy ass out here. Jenn-AH!’ I about crept from my room, heart pounding in my chest. The move I’d fallen on was a pirouette to a jete, a difficult move for a twelve-year-old to master, but that was no excuse for him.

“I came out into the kitchen, where he was sitting, a mostly-gone beer in front of him. I’d changed out of my leotards, into a pair of shorts and a shirt, but that wasn’t acceptable. He made me put the costume back on, white tights and tutu and even the little hat we’d worn.”

I closed my eyes, remembering. Wes was silent, waiting. I licked my lips and continued. “I think we were swans or something. Anyhow, Stephen made me do the move on the kitchen floor. Again and again. After his third beer, my legs were trembling and my feet ached. I must have done it thirty or forty times, and I remember the tears pouring down my cheeks. I begged him to let me stop.

“He laughed and opened another beer. I took a deep breath and prepared to do it again, but my foot just gave out. I did the leap okay, but instead of langing gracefully, I slid sideways, twisting my ankle, and hit the table. Stephen got up and screamed at me. I sat on the floor, holding my ankle, crying. He threw the beer he was drinking at me. It was about half full and the beer inside stained my white tutu. The bottle bounced off my shin, which really hurt, but it didn’t break.

“Stephen stood over me, and he looked so big. I was terrified. He called me some terrible things, and made me get up. ‘Again, Jenna. Until it’s right.’

“’I can’t stand!’ I yelled it up at him, still clutching my throbbing foot.

“Calm as anything, he reached down and slapped me across the face. ‘Again, Jenna.’

“Sobbing, I climbed to my feet. The floor was slippery, and I fell again, white tights stained yellow with his drink. He grabbed my hair by the bun I still wore and pulled me to my feet. Nothing ever hurt like that. I tried, Wes, I really tried to do the move the way he wanted me to.”

I felt frustrated tears spring to my eyes, remembering. I wiped them away with one hand. Wes put his arm around me, pulled me to him.

“I tried so hard to do it right, but I kept slipping. And every time I’d fall, he’d hit me. Only the first one was on the face; he was too smart to have marks that could be visible. But he began slapping my arms, my legs. By the time he got tired of it, and I was able to run to my room and peel off my tights, my legs and arms were bright red.”

This is Hope, p.149-151.

And here is the revised, declunked version:

I continued.  “But he was a mean drunk. Anything could set him off. It was very important to him that I be perfect, since I was representing him and the Houldson name.”

Wes snorted. “I know the type. Appearance is king.”

“Yup. Once we moved up to New Hampshire, I had to have my clothes perfectly matched, play every sport, get straight As. He didn’t like it when I failed to perform to his standards.”

“Why do I feel there’s an example coming? I’m almost afraid to hear it.”

The memory of the day came crashing into me. “There are lots. Once, I guess I was about twelve, I tripped on stage in a ballet recital. I was at the back of a big group, so I really hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did.”

Wes kissed the top of my head. “Em, you don’t have to tell me this.” His voice was muffled by my hair.

“Do you want me to stop?” I kept my cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. I almost hoped he’d tell me to stop talking, to keep it inside.

He was quiet for a long moment. “No. Keep going.”

I sighed. “In the car, on the way home, Mom gushed about how cute I looked in my costume and how wonderful I was, but Stephen drove in silence. I guess I knew what was coming.” I lifted my head off of his shoulder.

Wes said nothing. After a few seconds, I kept talking. “When we got home, Mom changed and went somewhere. Maybe to see a friend. Anyhow, as soon as her car left the driveway, Stephen was hollering my name. He had this odd way of saying it, raising his voice on the last syllable. ‘Em-AH!’ he yelled. ‘Get your clumsy ass out here. Em-AH!’ I about crept from my room, heart pounding in my chest.”

I took a breath, remembering. The move I’d fallen on was jete to a pirouette, a difficult move for a twelve-year-old to master, but that was no excuse for him. No, for Stephen it had to be good. Perfect. All of it. All the time. “I came out into the kitchen, where he was sitting, a mostly-gone beer in front of him.”

The memory floods me. I’d changed out of my leotards, into a pair of shorts and a shirt. I remember that he made me put the costume back on, white tights and tutu and even the headdress we’d worn. We’d been dressed as cygnets for Swan Lake. I could recall the strange way those white feathers felt against my cheek where they touched it. The feathers had curled down, behind my left ear, attached with bobby pins. I remembered how those feathers felt, and my skin crawled. We’d had our faces painted in a sparkly white, making almost a mask around our eyes, glittering plastic gems applied to the corners. Gems that stung like hell when I hit the floor. Sparkly white paint on Stephen’s hand. I swallowed.

Wes was silent, waiting. I licked my lips and continued. “Stephen made me do the move on the kitchen floor. Again and again. After his third beer, my legs were trembling and my feet ached. I must have done it thirty or forty times, and I remember the tears pouring down my cheeks. I begged him to let me stop.”

Wes spoke. “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“It gets worse. He laughed when I pleaded with him, and opened another beer. I took a deep breath and prepared to do it again, but my foot just gave out. I did the leap okay, but instead of landing gracefully, I slid sideways, twisting my ankle, and hit the table.”

Wes squeezed my hand.

My legs ached with the remembered pain. The words tumbled out even as my tears spilled down my cheeks.  “Stephen got up and screamed at me. I sat on the floor, holding my ankle, crying. He threw the beer he was drinking at me. It was about half full and the beer inside stained my white tutu. The bottle bounced off my shin, which really hurt, but it didn’t break. Not then.”

“What an ass.” Wes paused, then said it again. “Ass.”

“Stephen stood over me, and he looked so big. I was terrified. He called me some terrible things, and made me get up. ‘Again, Emma. Until it’s right.’”

“Wait.” Wes shifted beside me. “He made you do the move on a sprained ankle?”

“Yeah. I told him I couldn’t, but that didn’t matter to him.” I lapse into silence, remembering the anger in his face, the way his hand hovered over me. I’d tried to climb to my feet, but the floor had been covered with beer. I slipped, slid. And he laughed.  I remembered sitting at his feet, white tights stained with yellow beer. He’d laughed out loud, then slapped me across the face. His drew his hand back again and it was covered with the white paint from my eyes. The sparkles had reflected in the kitchen lights. I’d thought he was going to slap me again, but he grabbed my hair by the bun I still wore and pulled me to my feet. Nothing ever hurt like that, not even Conners’ rifle. The tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I tried, Wes, I really tried to do the move the way he wanted me to.”  I wiped my eyes with one hand. Wes put his arm around me, pulled me to him.

“I tried so hard to do it right, but I kept slipping. And every time I’d fall, he’d hit me. Only the first one was on the face; he was too smart to leave marks that could be visible. But he began slapping my arms, my legs. By the time he got tired of it, and I was able to run to my room and peel off my tights, my legs and arms were bright red.”

This is Hope p.151-154

What can I say? It's a work in progress. And now back to an inappropriate conversation with someone I shouldn't be talking to.

Dori