Danae Bradley

Turns out you don’t truly see your voice until it is missing.

About a week ago, I posted the prologue of my book on r/writingfeedback, just out of curiosity to see what people would say about it. Some users stated that the writing lost them in a few spots. Others messaged me directly with very positive reactions. Some of the feedback was integrated into the prologue, which was a revision of the original prologue from three years ago, including notes from the same editor that wrote the rewrite. While I wholeheartedly disagree with the rewrite’s approach, I do respect when someone has decent points on something.

In the time between the original prologue and the revised prologue, much has changed. I could barely recognize my own writing, but I wasn’t entirely sure why yet. I was proud of it because the communication issues to the reader were being straightened out and I was able to maintain the voice I wanted.

That “Voice” was something that was slowly developing over the years. So slowly, that I barely even recognized the changes. So when the rewrite came along and took that voice, I felt in shock like I was just stabbed and my body didn’t register the full impact until ten days later.

This is going to be a very in-depth look at the revised prologue, the rewrite, and where the separation occurs. Please note that this is in no way a method to belittle the user that did the rewrite, because to be completely fair it looks like they were following CMOS (Chicago Manual of Style) rules and I’ll get into why that is understandable but likely an ill-advised approach to creative fiction.

Please note the original prologue from three years ago will not make an appearance here, just the revision and the user rewrite.

Part I: The Prose

I will provide the Prologue Revision, and the Rewritten version. I don’t wish to break this up so that you see the full unaltered version of the rewrite.

The Original Prologue:

A roar bellowed from the beast’s ursine throat as it sprinted between moonlit trees. A brown steed galloped up the steep slopes of Kriedeberg, panting erratically as Aveline held tightly to its reins. She pulled her hood close to her cheek, clutching a crying bundle of cloth in the snow. The fabric wriggled in her arms, and a tiny cry fluttered out like a candle’s flame. It was only a matter of time before the bear caught up with her. Aveline tugged at her purple hood, shielding her face from the snow that pelted her like small stones.

Aveline pulled the horse’s reins. It’s head rose as it slid to a stop. A landslide had destroyed what was left of the pass, leaving a cliff in its wake. She pulled to the left, digging her heels into the horse, but it relented. She looked back, noticing a tiny black blur in the distance. She released the reins, leaping from the horse as she cradled the child in her arms.

Aveline ran between the trees, ducking beneath branches that grabbed at her like a hundred hands. The baby cried sharply as branches cracked like whips behind her. Boots crunched into the snow, then hit hard stone as she left the forest and found the rocky slope of the mountain. A larger, deeper abyss sat before her, but as she turned she saw the face of the creature hunting her.

The bear stared at Aveline as she pulled the baby up to her chest. Its head rested softly beneath her jaw, resting along her collar bone. She could feel tiny arms flinch beneath the cloth, and soft skin from the baby’s face nudging up against her neck.

The bear charged at Aveline, digging its claws into the earth at the edge of the forest. The clacking of its jaw echoed among the pines, drool dripping from its long lower lip. It stomped the ground and swatted at the dirt. Deep, conscious eyes staring at the baby.

Aveline raised a free hand. The heavens above her began thickening into a violent maelstrom. Tears clouded her vision as she felt the familiar pins and needles in her arm. She hoped the bear would understand, that it would run away, but it swayed from side to side, its gaze fixed. It was about to charge.

The bear’s claws pierced the earth, stampeding towards Aveline. Lighting arced between her fingertips. Just as she felt the heat building in her chest, the bear raised onto its hind legs. Fur fell away from the bear’s skin, its paw taking the form of a human hand as a man leaped towards her. His wedding band shimmered as fingers barely scraped at the cloak on Aveline’s arm. Human fingers tipped with bearlike claws ripped away the fabric near her wrist, leaving it in tatters.

Aveline’s reflection stared at her from emerald eyes. The hairs on the man’s arm stood on end as the heavens opened into a column of brilliant light. The air roared as lightning split the night sky. It crashed into the snow near the man, boiling the snow and casting steam across the landscape. An invisible wall crashed against Aveline, sending her back as the man launched into the trees. He smashed into a tree, pine needles exploding into a cloud of white powder. His spine cracked against the wood, stripping bark from the trunk as he fell to the ground.

Aveline lay flat on the ground. Silence hung in the air as snow slowly returned, melting as it landed on charred, glassy rock. Aveline dragged her arm across the ground, fragments of gravel and heated stone singing her skin as she reached for her chest. She could no longer feel the baby’s skin against her neck. She lifted herself off the ground, her right arm dragging as it sat limply at her side. Deep red wounds stretched across her skin like webs, covered in dirt. She stumbled to her feet, stepping back towards the cliff edge as she stared up at the sky. A perfect disc of stars appeared where she had plucked the storm from the sky. Her eyes struggled to focus as a cough ripped through her throat. She scanned the ground around her, then looked over the edge of the abyss. The fabric was gone, and with it, the baby.

A breath whimpered behind Aveline. She looked over her shoulder to the tree line to the man reaching out from the blood-soaked snow. Rage and confusion turned to a muffled scream of agony that pierced Aveline’s ears. His pained gasps turned into belabored sobbing. He called Aveline’s name, reaching out with all of his remaining strength. He slumped into the wet ground as blood from his wounds crept across the snow beneath him. Snowflakes danced in the air, melting once they touched his molten skin. The needles of every tree around him died as his hand fell into the snow.

Torches illuminated the tree line behind the broken body. The distant shouts of soldiers were dampened by snow. Aveline stared down at her fingers, reddened by burns, covered in blisters. She stared at the man, eyes frozen in silent shock. A voice hissed in the snow, poison seeping into her skull.

Leave him. Death is mercy.

A ring of light appeared behind her. Aveline stepped inside, disappearing as the sun rose against a newborn horizon.

The Rewritten Prologue

An ursine roar sounded from the darkness, chasing Aveline as she galloped up the steep slopes of Kriedeberg, pushing her horse to its limit. She gripped the reins in one hand and cradled a bundle of cloth in her free arm. Snow threatened to soak the fabric, and a tiny cry fluttered out like a candle’s flame.

They crested the rise and Aveline heaved the horse’s head around, only just stopping it from plunging into an abyss. A landslide had destroyed the pass, and now there was nowhere to go. The beast was catching up.

Aveline abandoned the horse and ran for the trees, ducking beneath grasping branches, willing the child to stop crying. She made it across the snow-packed ground and onto the rocky mountain slope, but no further. Something grunted and growled behind, and Aveline turned and saw the bear [more description of the bear/beast here?]. She clutched the baby tighter, lifting it [him/her?] so its face nudged against her neck. There was no other option. She lifted her free hand to the sky.

The bear charged, and above them clouds collided into a violent maelstrom. Tears clouded Aveline’s vision as familiar pain filled her arm. The bear didn’t change course–of course he didn’t. He was fixated on the child.

Neither one would relent.

The air filled with the crackle of a storm, and Aveline’s outstretched fingers limned with violent blue light. The bear roared again, leaping forward and transforming in a fluid rush. His outstretched paw became a human hand, strong and wide-reaching, with a wedding band on his finger. The fur fell away from his arm, chest, legs. His roar became a shout of anger, and he hit the ground as a man grabbing furiously at Aveline’s cloak.

Then the lightning struck. Aveline and the man both flew backwards, thrown by the immeasurable force. Aveline landed in the snow, but the man smashed into a tree, cracking his back against the wood and falling to the ground covered in blood.

Where was the baby? Aveline struggled up, ignoring her limp right arm and the burns stretching over her skin like red webs. She scanned the ground, then looked over the edge of the abyss. She fell back to her knees, then looked over her shoulder to see the man crawling her way, heaving breaths and radiating anguish. He saw her face–saw her closed, pained expression–and screamed, then sobbed. He cried Aveline’s name, feeding the last of his strength into agony, and finally slumped over in the snow. When he was silent and still, the ghost of his pain rippled into the air, and the trees all around dropped their needles to the ground.

Aveline didn’t want to move, but she didn’t want to be captured by man’s soldiers either. She could hear them already, and see their torches flickering in among the trees.

Leave him, she thought. Death is mercy.

Part II: CMOS, The Corporate Memphis of Creative Writing

I know I just threw out two terms that may be new to a non-writing audience. No worries, I’ll run down the basics.

Corporate Memphis (IE. Alegria Art) is an art style developed by the Memphis Group. It prioritizes basic shapes and colors to create inoffensive images for corporate use. It has been widely criticized by creatives for being too overused and minimalistic. This artstyle is noticable in a lot of Big Tech companies, like Facebook and Microsoft.

That being said, Corporate Memphis is designed specifically to be inoffensive and accessible to all people, regardless of race, religion, or creed. This is good for corporations, but if you took this concept and translated it to creative fiction, you may end up sterilizing a piece of writing that would otherwise have been great.

Please be aware that as a creative myself, I have very, very strong opinions on CMOS, or the Chicago Manual of Style. To quote the website:

It is the indispensable reference for writers, editors, proofreaders, indexers, copywriters, designers, and publishers, informing the editorial canon with sound, definitive advice.

CMOS is a massive player in the publishing industry, but it’s application is up for debate. While some people use CMOS as a basic guide and reference it for grammar, structure, dialogue, etc. Some people use it as a tried and true method for writing a book. The manual covers so much that it would be impossible to discuss it all in a blog post. To do so would be to write a book about it.

CMOS does appear to have a lot of great advice on formatting, grammar, punctuation, and more. It even has info on backing up your projects which I don’t need but I can see another writer benefitting from that.

The issue stems from CMOS being a highly efficient machine that prefers a fast paced, cinematic form of writing. I have no proof that the editor used CMOS, but editors that use this style do have a culture of efficiency and directness that sometimes co-opts CMOS. At best, it’s a misguided effort to help a writer, at worst, it’s industrial gatekeeping.

For example: Take a look at how the rewrite approaches the lightning strike versus the prologue. (It was hard to find a good start/stop point because of how vastly different these versions are).

Prologue

Aveline’s reflection stared at her from emerald eyes. The hairs on the man’s arm stood on end as the heavens opened into a column of brilliant light. The air roared as lightning split the night sky. It crashed into the snow near the man, boiling the snow and casting steam across the landscape. An invisible wall crashed against Aveline, sending her back as the man launched into the trees. He smashed into a tree, pine needles exploding into a cloud of white powder. His spine cracked against the wood, stripping bark from the trunk as he fell to the ground.

Rewrite

Then the lightning struck. Aveline and the man both flew backwards, thrown by the immeasurable force. Aveline landed in the snow, but the man smashed into a tree, cracking his back against the wood and falling to the ground covered in blood.

The CMOS method is significantly easier to read. You can skim three sentences in less than five seconds. It is digestible, it is simple, it is plain.

The issue here is that my writing is not designed to be smoothed. Where CMOS is the blender that softens your food, Bjornborn is meant to be more like a steak. Maybe tough to chew, but the flavor is unmistakeable. I don’t expect everyone to have the stamina for it, and that’s okay.

The lightning strike in the revised prologue shows the beginning, the impact, and the aftermath. These three states are represented with heavier words. I took inspiration from the animation industry (an interest of mine though I don’t have the talent for it) for my approach to this, since they use a concept called keyframing to roughly draft a scene, and inbetweens which connect the keyframes. There is a Point A to Point B in the prologue, but I have used descriptions, actions, and set pieces as the inbetweens.

Writing and animation are not one to one, so I understand if that comparison may be confusing. But I find that seeing techniques in one industry may just help my own writing sometimes.

When Aveline uses magic to cast lightning, the sensation that electricity in the air brings is felt by the man. The sky itself parts from her power. The strike hits, and you can see the impact. A lightning strike is half a second. It is fleeting, it is an obliterating force. In the rewrite, the lightning strike is simplified to, “then the lightning struck.” Because of this, the beginning was fundamentally changed.

Much of what I learned about writing prioritizes ‘show don’t tell,’ while the rewrite feels very ‘tell don’t show.’ I trust the readers to understand what is going on in the prose. I believe that if someone saw Aveline hit by an ‘invisible wall’ and the man being blasted back they would understand, even subconsciously, that that was an insanely heavy hit (thought he invisible wall was confusing to one reader, I may tweak that a bit). The Editor’s rewrite also removed details of pine needles exploding and the white powder. He effectively deleted the impact.

The ending with the man being blasted back and striking the tree is the least altered portion, but because of the significant changes made to the beginning and the impact, the following sentence has lost the weight that was built up from the previous passages. In the prologue, later sentences never use the word blood. Because I trust the reader to know that the pink or red stains that appear in the snow is blood. There is also a psychological layer to my choice. If I show blood, that is a shock factor. If I show this man groaning, reaching out, then sobbing, that shows a very deep, vicseral pain. That is the loss that encapsulates the entire book, and that is the focus. With this, the aftermath was weakened.

And please keep in mind: a lightning strike only takes half a second.

To return to the animation analogy, my writing uses keyframes and inbetweens to create a full range of ‘animation.’

The rewrite appears to only use the keyframes and the inbetweens are removed.

With all of this being said, I believe we can finally arrive to the conclusion: the artist ethos and how this rewrite told me what my voice was.

Because I didn’t know I had one until I felt the urge to defend it.

Part III: The Artist Ethos

Ethos is a Greek word meaning ‘character.’ It is your belief, your ideals, and your morals. In the modern day, it is like the framework in which you operate as an artist. It is a personal thing that changes from person to person.

That being said, this study of the rewrite has taught me my own ethos, the guiding principles in what I write, why I write the way I do, and how.

The above explanation for the lightning strike was something that I could not put into words before. I was trying to learn why the rewrite left such a huge hole in my gut, and when the realization struck, I suddenly had guidelines for how my own work operates.

Bjornborn encapsulates human emotion in a way that forces the reader to feel those emotions with the characters. I use different methods to achieve this, many of which are within the subtext of the story. Someone who skims or tries to flatten Bjornborn will not see the full story. I do have the feeling that readers may not fully see all the smaller details on one read through. But that’s okay, because a book that needs more than one pass is like a movie that you watch over and over to catch small details in the background. To me that’s what books are supposed to be. They’re supposed to have a main story, but have little notes in the back that a reader can pick up on and feel good about when they have relevance later.

I do not want to write the way that publishers want. It is flat, softened, and molded into something that is accessible to all but interesting to few. Bjornborn is the story of a child finding himself after years of neglect, and a mother who struggles with the loss of her child over a decade ago. This level of flattening does not belong in a story that covers such topics, because to shear away the weight-carrying words and replace them with ‘she felt sad’ is to disregard the message I’m trying to convey.