Rewriting is Writing

Looking back on this blog, I can see how far I have come, and how much another rewrite really improved my work.
But now I am a rewrite addict. I think I rewrote that leading sentence six times. Did it come off too cocky? Was the verb tense choppy? Too many commas? Oh no, I think I was telling too much and not showing enough. Ugh.
Every little word can mean so much.
Then I get to my query letter and the microscope turns up another notch. Maybe I did get rejected because of that comma. Maybe that agent didn't like my sentence fragments.
Every little...
When it gets that crazy, it's time to take a step back. Cleanse my thoughts with some binge reading. Maybe even blog a bit. Take a long walk. Breathe.
I am proud of my latest draft. I really think it's great! The best yet.

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Latest version of opening paragraphs.....

Walking home from school was once the highlight of my life. My moment to breathe in some fresh air, catch a glimpse of my surroundings, maybe see another kid, or make a friend. But chances were slim. Because once I got home I’d be stuck inside. I was nine, and had just moved to Arlington, Massachusetts.

Dad picked me up from school, always dead tired from working nights at FedEx. His eyes were sunken, his clothes were caked with warehouse dust, and his boots dragged. I hopped around like a gazelle compared to Dad. My long brown hair flowed in the wind as I ran ahead and ditched him. Dad always tried to ruin my four blocks of freedom.

“Rowena! Stop running!” he yelled, “I said slow down!”

I savored every detail of Franklin Street. Sunshine reflected off the windows of the two-story duplexes. Sparrows chattered in the hedges. Tall trees glowed with reds and yellows. I knocked a maple seed off a branch, and watched it spin down like a helicopter. I found a sparkly white pebble on the ground, slipped it in my pocket, and ran again.

I arrived at my tiny gray house, which looked out of place, dwarfed and crammed in between larger homes. Its two dormer windows were spaced upon the roof like dumb eyes. The siding was faded and the shingles were curled. The front yard was barely big enough for a leaf pile, but I built one and jumped in just before Dad caught up.

“Rowena!” he yelled, “Get out of that filthy mess! Get over here!” He stood in the street behind his rusty VW Jetta.

“What?” I said, “We going somewhere?”

“Nope,” he grumbled, “I have something for you.”

“Really?“ That couldn’t be good.

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Old opening....

The big round, triple-decker, dark chocolate cake, smothered with gobs of cherry whip cream frosting, sat high on top of the pedestal plate. The birthday song was sung and the candles were blown out. Then an eager little hand bumped the pedestal and sent the cake flying off the table. The sugary masterpiece soared aimlessly out of reach and headed straight to the floor. But nothing splattered. The cake stopped falling, and froze in mid-air. It magically floated upward, slowly, and rested back on the table. After an awkward silence, one girl cracked up laughing.

Emily Krell beamed with bright hazel eyes, an impish little nose and dimpled cheeks. Her high-pitched giggle bubbled up from her gut. Her fingers fluttered with applause. That was the first time Emily had seen magic in years, and she couldn’t have been happier. Not long ago, she had magic of her very own.

Back then, Emily was 9 and lived here in Arlington, MA. Her magic arrived in early November, when her dad, Tim, picked her up from school. Tim always looked dead tired from working nights at FedEx. His sweatshirt and jeans were coated with warehouse dust, and his boots dragged like stumps. Emily pranced around weightless in comparison. Her long brown hair swelled with air as she hopped along the sidewalk. Emily moved fast, ditching Tim on purpose. She wanted to walk home alone, yet he insisted on joining her. School was only four blocks away.

The sun on Franklin Street shined in streaks between rectangle stacks of duplexes. Trees sagged with heavy limbs that burst with red and orange. Emily jumped, knocked a maple seed loose, and watched it spin down like a helicopter. She found a sparkly pebble, slipped it in her pocket and continued along. She arrived at her tiny yellow house, which looked a bit out of place, dwarfed and crammed between larger homes. Its two dormer windows were spaced upon the roof like eyes. Green shutters matched the green front door, the green mailbox, and green tin awning. The front yard was barely big enough for a leaf pile, but Emily built one and jumped in by the time Tim got home.

“Emily!” Tim yelled from behind his rusty VW Jetta, “Come here, I have a present for you.”

“Really?“ Emily sat up in the crunchy leaves. She stood, wiped leaf bits off her plaid jumper, and joined Tim on the curb.

Emily knew by her dad’s sneaky smile that he had found something at FedEx. Sometimes he kept lost packages. Nothing valuable, usually just candy or flowers. But that day when Tim popped open the trunk he revealed a cardboard box the size of a pizza. Its address label was all ripped up.