Revising the Novel: Getting Back In
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| [I actually enjoy revising…] |
Readers following my series of posts on Revising the Novel know that I put my 4th revision away for the holiday season. Roughly 5 weeks away from those pages, I pulled them out again last week to glance at notes I left. That night, I tried freewrites in my journal about different outcomes and possibilities for various chapters. I looked again at my notes, talked out loud to myself, then settled behind the keyboard to make a loose outline of the remaining 5-7 chapters.
But today was the real reckoning–opening that document in full, re-reading the last two chapters to refresh my memory, double-checking my loose outline, then forging those first few sentences together. The process was very slow and I only had 2 hours. I’m not sure what I’ll keep, but I got to thinking that it is this kind of revision–quiet changes done in the pre-dawn light at the desk–that are hardest to teach, point to, and name. For that reason, and because I have private students who I suspect will appreciate this in particular, I’m going to post a little bit of the “before” and “after” paragraphs to demonstrate what this kind of surgery can look like. Full disclaimer: These drafts are copyrighted, un-proofed, and all mine. 🙂
BEFORE: I knew I needed to use the scene with the Special Ops soldiers and the Hazara translator from the short story in Flashes of War that inspired this novel. But many logistics, directions, and other details no longer fit into my novel. The writing in Flashes of War (the story “Aaseya & Rahim”) for this particular scene was also quite sparse. In the novel, I’m trying to fill in the surroundings and my characters’ reactions to those surroundings to make their world and lives appear full conceived–informed by their unique pasts. Here’s a snapshot of the lead up to that original scene with the Special Ops and the translator:
Not there at all and then, all at once, in front of them. A long snake, aimed tongue-first at Rahim and Badria’s hideout. They must have appeared on the northern horizon while Rahim and Badria were busy gazing homeward. This is what Special Ops does, after all, fanning out quickly across districts reportedly under Taliban influence. Hoping to find insurgents or dismantle landmines, or, if nothing else pester a few civilians into spewing information regardless of its veracity.
Quickly, Rahim and Badria stash their guns and begin working the creek bed with their shovels. Moments later, the Special Ops convoy slows to a halt about twenty meters away. Four men step out of the first vehicle and walk toward Rahim and Badria. “Put down the shovel,” a soldier shouts in English. They’re close now, maybe ten meters. The soldier raises his hands in the air, indicating what Rahim and Badria should do. “Put your hands up! Show me your hands! Put your hands up!” the man repeats. If soldiers are anything, they’re loud. As though yelling repeatedly can make words translate mid-air.
Rahim and Badria do as they’re shown, hustling up the slopes of the creek bed to stand in the middle of the road. Hands overhead, feet spread…they know the drill.
“I am on your side,” Rahim says in English. It rolls off of his tongue smoothly, just like he’s practiced. “Your side, your side.”
“Do you understand English?”
Rahim shakes his head, then speaks to the translator who he knows must be the
bearded man disguised in Special Ops fatigues.
“Why are you here?” the translator asks.
“We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re digging to make bricks,” Rahim says. “What’s he saying?” the first soldier asks. He’s short with sun-tinged skin and black stripes painted underneath his eyes. Along his collar, a crossed-arrow insignia.
“They’re going to search you,” the translator says. Rahim doesn’t recognize his face, but that accent. Undeniably Hazara. No telling where Special Ops found him though; translators are notoriously on the run and for good reason.
“Fine,” Rahim says. “They won’t find anything.”
“Let them search us,” Badria says. “Tell them they’re perverts.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Search them,” the translator says to the soldier. “Search for their wallets, too.”
“Let them search us,” Badria says. “Tell them they’re perverts.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Search them,” the translator says to the soldier. “Search for their wallets, too.”
One of the soldiers searches Badria. Another aims his automatic weapon at their faces. The first one, the talker, eyes the situation fiercely.
“How are your children?” Badria says to the translator. “Are they well?” He keeps his hands raised as the soldier pats each arm, then his torso, and all the way down each leg. “What about your mother? I haven’t heard good things about her.”
The translator does his best to ignore Badria.
“Ask them what they’re doing on the side of the road,” the talker says. “Tell them they’re not allowed here.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” the translator says.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Rahim blurts. He is annoyed, more than anything, at seeing this fellow Afghan pupetted by the Americans. Who do they think they are, buying loyalties like that, waving money to make a man risk his life? Rahim puckers his lips and considers spitting at the translator’s feet, then swallows a hard knot of realization. How different is that from what he’s doing here, now, greedy Taliban soldiers waiting somewhere in the wings to come down and give him his daily bread? If everyone could just leave and be done with my country.
The soldier searches Rahim next, not roughly but not kindly either.
AFTER: Notice that the references to Special Ops, by name, have been taken out (there’s no way my characters would have known what the insignia meant). Notice, also, that Rahim’s responses are more specific and visceral, the language is closer to presenting the way in which an Afghan might view an American soldier, and the landscape is utilized as a transformative aspect of home. For Rahim, in particular, his dependency upon the desert for a way of life is key during other scenes, so I wanted to work with that here as well.
Quickly, Rahim and Badria stash their guns and begin working the creek bed with their shovels. Three distant dots and then, all at once, right there in front of them. The convoy slows to a halt about twenty meters away, a gigantic scorpion aimed poison-first at Rahim and Badria’s hideout. Four men step out of the first vehicle and thud across the road. Their walk is something to behold, weighed down with body armor and bulging pockets, burdens a wonder to Rahim. Still, they move in an ever-straight line from one destination to the next, no room for wandering. No thought to change course. It is at once the most confident and quizzical movement Rahim has ever seen. Nervousness overtakes him and he stifles a laugh.
“Put down the shovel,” a soldier shouts in English. They’re close now, maybe ten meters. A wash of kicked up dust blows along the roadway, coating Rahim in talcum mist. Strange, how something unwanted can give something back to you that you didn’t even know you loved. The desert. It is completely his. He imagines the sand melding into particles of protection, coating his face and neck, his clothing; an unbreakable glass armor.
“Put your hands up! Show me your hands! Put your hands up!” the man repeats. If soldiers are anything, they’re loud. As though yelling repeatedly makes words translate mid-air. Rahim and Badria do as they’re shown, hustling up the slopes of the creek bed to stand in the middle of the road. Hands overhead, feet spread—they know the routine. Rahim hopes there aren’t any women in the other Humvees, tightly muscled figures cradling guns instead of babies. The humiliation.
“I am on your side,” Rahim says in English. It rolls off of his tongue smoothly, practiced. “Your side, your side.”
“Do you understand English?”
Rahim shakes his head, then speaks to the translator who he knows must be the bearded man disguised in American fatigues.
“Why are you here?” the translator asks in Pashto.
“We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re digging to make bricks,” Rahim says.
“What’s he saying?” the first soldier asks. He’s short with pink skin and a thick, black stripe painted under each eye. Along his collar: a crossed-arrow insignia in black and gold.
“They’re going to search you,” the translator says. Rahim doesn’t recognize the man’s face, but the accent is undeniably Hazara. No telling where the soldiers found him though; translators are notoriously on the run and for good reason.
“Fine,” Rahim says. “They won’t find anything.”
“Let them search us,” Badria says. “Tell them they’re perverts.”
“What’s he saying?” says the pink-skinned one. Like a helpless pig, that’s what he is. Grunting and strutting. Rahim stares at the Pinky’s temple, a ropy, purple vein pulsing beneath the skin.
“Search them,” the translator says to Pinky.
A third man approaches and searches Badria. The fourth aims his automatic weapon at Rahim and Badria’s faces. Pinky eyes the situation fiercely.
“How are your children?” Badria says to the translator. “Are they well?” He keeps his hands raised as the soldier pats each arm, then his torso, all the way down each leg. “What about your mother? I haven’t heard good things about her.”
The translator ignores him.
“Ask them what they’re doing on the side of the road,” Pinky says. “Tell them they’re not allowed here.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” the translator says.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Rahim blurts. He is annoyed, more than anything, at seeing this fellow Afghan puppeted by the Americans. Who do they think they are, buying loyalties like that, waving money to make a man risk his life? His family’s? Rahim puckers his lips and considers spitting at the translator’s feet, then swallows a hard knot of realization. How different is that from what he does now, greedy Taliban waiting up the hillsides to come down and give him his daily bread? None of them should be here. None of them belong. His country is an open wound, a mess of parasites, everyone come to dig in and take their fill.
