re-writing and why
Mood:
Contemplative
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January 30, 2006
I've re-written that section I posted here earlier. I haven't finished working on this chapter and I probably haven't finished tweaking this section, but I'll put the 2 versions up and feel free to comment. I'm not really looking for comments. What I would like to see is if you can tell WHY I made the changes I did. I'll post my thoughts on what was going on in my head tomorrow.
*****!!! I just added a third version!!! 4:41 PM
Version 1:
Senator Thomas Nichols was in the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. Nichols was forty-nine years old, lean, fit, black hair cut in a conservative cut, just the right amount of gray coming in at the temples. There were severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older; crow’s feet around his eyes, deep folds on either side of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight for the intelligence agencies.
“Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager stepped into the room. Lynette Showers was a grouchy sixty-year-old in a dark pantsuit that did nothing to hide the fact that she was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I… a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose out of the chair and stepped out of the conference room. “What is it?”
“Do you know of a woman by the name of Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Version 2:
Senator Thomas Nichols leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He momentarily glanced out the window of the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. He had a decent view of the U.S. Capitol. He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight and coordination between the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA and the NSA. It was the tip of the iceberg and it gave him a headache.
One of his staff, Mary Lakeland, a heavyset blond who wore oversized glasses with hot pink frames, was going on about the NSA budget, despite the fact it wasn’t her job or area of expertise. Her words were like elevator music and he stared blankly out the window, her voice wafting unheard around him.
Nichols was forty-nine years old, lean, fit, black hair trimmed short and parted on the left, just the right amount of gray coming in at the temples. Good hair, he knew with a certain degree of vanity. It helped a politician to have good hair. Severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older. Crow’s feet etched around his eyes, deep folds digging onto either side of his mouth. The years had not been kind, but the age lines gave him character.
Mary said something that brought him back to earth. She was proposing something that would only get everybody in the intelligence community screaming their heads off.
“Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager leaned in. Lynette Showers was a grouchy sixty-year-old in a dark pantsuit that did nothing to hide the fact that she was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I… a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose from the chair and followed her out. “What is it?”
“Do you know Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name. She was insistent that it was important and that you did know her.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Version #3:
Senator Thomas Nichols leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He momentarily glanced out the window of the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. He had a decent view of the U.S. Capitol.
One of his staff, Mary Lakeland, a heavyset blond who wore oversized glasses with hot pink frames, was going on about the NSA budget, despite the fact it wasn’t her job or area of expertise. Her words were like elevator music and he stared blankly out the window, her voice wafting unheard around him.
Nichols rubbed at the severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older. Crow’s feet etched around his eyes, deep folds digging onto either side of his mouth. The years had not been kind. He was only forty-nine. He scratched absently at the back of his neck, mind blank, trying to focus.
He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight and coordination between the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA and the NSA. It was the tip of the iceberg and it gave him a headache.
Mary said something that brought him back to earth. “Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager leaned in. Sixty years old, Lynette Showers was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I … a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose from the chair and followed her out. “What is it?”
“Do you know Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name. She was insistent that it was important and that you did know her.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Best,
Mark Terry
I've re-written that section I posted here earlier. I haven't finished working on this chapter and I probably haven't finished tweaking this section, but I'll put the 2 versions up and feel free to comment. I'm not really looking for comments. What I would like to see is if you can tell WHY I made the changes I did. I'll post my thoughts on what was going on in my head tomorrow.
*****!!! I just added a third version!!! 4:41 PM
Version 1:
Senator Thomas Nichols was in the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. Nichols was forty-nine years old, lean, fit, black hair cut in a conservative cut, just the right amount of gray coming in at the temples. There were severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older; crow’s feet around his eyes, deep folds on either side of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight for the intelligence agencies.
“Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager stepped into the room. Lynette Showers was a grouchy sixty-year-old in a dark pantsuit that did nothing to hide the fact that she was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I… a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose out of the chair and stepped out of the conference room. “What is it?”
“Do you know of a woman by the name of Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Version 2:
Senator Thomas Nichols leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He momentarily glanced out the window of the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. He had a decent view of the U.S. Capitol. He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight and coordination between the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA and the NSA. It was the tip of the iceberg and it gave him a headache.
One of his staff, Mary Lakeland, a heavyset blond who wore oversized glasses with hot pink frames, was going on about the NSA budget, despite the fact it wasn’t her job or area of expertise. Her words were like elevator music and he stared blankly out the window, her voice wafting unheard around him.
Nichols was forty-nine years old, lean, fit, black hair trimmed short and parted on the left, just the right amount of gray coming in at the temples. Good hair, he knew with a certain degree of vanity. It helped a politician to have good hair. Severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older. Crow’s feet etched around his eyes, deep folds digging onto either side of his mouth. The years had not been kind, but the age lines gave him character.
Mary said something that brought him back to earth. She was proposing something that would only get everybody in the intelligence community screaming their heads off.
“Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager leaned in. Lynette Showers was a grouchy sixty-year-old in a dark pantsuit that did nothing to hide the fact that she was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I… a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose from the chair and followed her out. “What is it?”
“Do you know Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name. She was insistent that it was important and that you did know her.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Version #3:
Senator Thomas Nichols leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. He momentarily glanced out the window of the conference room of his offices in the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue. He had a decent view of the U.S. Capitol.
One of his staff, Mary Lakeland, a heavyset blond who wore oversized glasses with hot pink frames, was going on about the NSA budget, despite the fact it wasn’t her job or area of expertise. Her words were like elevator music and he stared blankly out the window, her voice wafting unheard around him.
Nichols rubbed at the severe lines cut into his face that made him seem older. Crow’s feet etched around his eyes, deep folds digging onto either side of his mouth. The years had not been kind. He was only forty-nine. He scratched absently at the back of his neck, mind blank, trying to focus.
He glanced at the sheaf of papers in his hand, an outline of proposed oversight and coordination between the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA and the NSA. It was the tip of the iceberg and it gave him a headache.
Mary said something that brought him back to earth. “Mary, are you coordinating with the budget on this? Because I don’t see—“
The door opened and Senator Nichols’ office manager leaned in. Sixty years old, Lynette Showers was built like a broom with a clothes hanger for shoulders. She seemed flustered. “Sir, I … a moment in private, sir?”
Nichols raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He rose from the chair and followed her out. “What is it?”
“Do you know Joanna Dancing?”
Nichols visibly flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“She just called.”
“Is she still on the line? Where is she?”
“She left a message. I didn’t know whether to give it to you or not. You do know her?”
“Yes. What’s the message?”
“I mean, sir, she was sort of … I thought she might be a crank, but she told me you’d recognize her name. She was insistent that it was important and that you did know her.”
Nichols was barely able to keep from reaching out and strangling the woman. “What was the message?”
Lynette glanced at the slip in her hand. “She said, and I’m quoting, sir: ‘Tell Tommy to meet me at Bullfeathers at 4:15 or I’m blowing his shit out of the water.’”
Best,
Mark Terry
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