I haven't praised myself all day. I performed a unique experiment in N:Era. I saved all drafts of Chapter 4 of N:Era: Where We Lie, and I thought I would show and explain how a scene evolves. So we'll start off with the earliest rendition. This is actually in a journal.
"Cyras rarely thought of Owlis as gentle, but as she sat in the chair, she felt the comb cascading over her fur tuffs in a smooth manner. The wildborn refused anyone else's grooming attempts. The Empress could have a million servants, but she wouldn't trust one.
Owlis said, as she rubbed some stray strands down, "Making one look respectable for a party requires several steps. There's still dresses."
"I'm not sure if I even want a party," Cyras muttered.
Owlis laughed. "If only. I hate my birthday, but the reason this matters is for others."
"So this is my party, but the real focus is the guests. How does that make any sense."
Owlis shrugged before spritzing a sharp smelling perfume on her. Nose wrinkles, Cyras thought, I'd rather my own musk instead of smelling like a strawberry's armpit.
After another quick brush, Owlis stopped and went over to her closet. Cyras leapt on Owlis' bed as she opened the door.
"This is the dress the tailor made."
"Avocadon't green mixed with pukey brown." The color of the dress was not naturally occurring, but instead an amalgation of undiagnosed color blindness and rejected color dyes, or in other words, ugly. Even the lace seemed more appropriate for shoes. Cyras wasn't sure how dressed were held together, she just knew the craftmansship should be better than this.
Owlis' eyes glazed over. "I am so sorry."
Cyras wasn't aware until that moment Owlis could apologize. "I could do with another dress."
"We have two days, but I'll see what the tailor can do." Owlis stared back at the dress. "You should play with your friends now."
Cyras smirked at the word play. Owlis' back was to her. She jumped. As usual, the older fox grabbed her, this time midair, and slammed her on the tailborn. But, Cyras lurched onto her side and lucked at Owlis' hips. She slapped Cyras' soles, but Cyras threw her paw at the Empress' jaw and she retaliated with a headbutt.
"Ow!" Cyras stood on her hindlegs while her knuckles burned. With a huff, she ran at Owlis again.
Owlis got an arm under Cyras' armpit, swerved her hips, and slammed the fox on the floor. Cyras wriggled before dodging a bite near her rump.
Seems like her third attempt of getting a hit on Owlis went bust. She ran through the hallways and down the stairs all while plotting. Owlis was quick, however, she was also rigid and inflexible.
I feel like there's a lot of energy in this first draft, that can't be replicated or replaced, such as the raging insults towards the dress. A lot of problem with revision is the loss of that potential energy as you try to make the writing more elegant. However, this also adds to a better story, that doesn't meander.
One thing that sticks out, is, "Cyras smirked at the word play". Until literally writing that last sentence, I was trying to figure out the pun, and now I realize Cyras is smirking at Owlis saying "play" because that's permission to be naughty.
However, by the first digital draft, the scene evolved.
"Anyway, now sit your butt up in the chair," Owlis told her, as she got the girl situated, before she began combing her. Usually this would be someone else's job, but Cyras only accepted grooming from the Empress. Anyone else ended up getting a sharp edge when the Wildborn got bitey.)
Cyras wasn't opposed grooming, at least not from a family or pack member, and she stared in Owlis' silver mirror. She had three tufts of "hair", and Owlis made them silky smooth before working down, straightening the fur on her head, then down her back, her rump, and her legs, her belly. Gently hands propped every which way, until she was ready.
Owlis opened a door, revealing her closet. "And this is the dress."
"That's a crime of nature," Cyras said. "Literally."
The dress wasn't the ugliest color ever, just, well, if she chewed on brogle, then vomited that up with some banana, this was roughly the same color with a bit of purple put in, like eggplant. Honestly, there was an issue figuring out what color this actually was. Green maybe, or brown, but in certain lightings, could have been a purple, a blue, an orange.
The stitching was wonderful, everything was poorly fitting or proportioned and in no way could fit Cyras, but technically the dress had good bones.
"What is that?" Cyras asked.
"Opaque Couche," Owlis explained. "This is a color made with, um, several colors."
"I wouldn't wear that even if everything here was on fire and the only way I could put the fire out was by wearing that... Sorry I was gonna think of something that made sense but that's all I could come up with."
"That's okay." Owlis rolled her eyes. "This is what the tailor made, and this is what you're wearing. You must wear a dress. That's how a formal event works."
"Well why do I even need this birthday party anyway? I don't even want this party in the first place."
Owlis sighed. "There's not really a choice, you simply must have a birthday party, because this isn't a party for you, this party is about you. The party is for others. Your friends and family."
"Well I invited all of mine," Cyras said.
"At least you still have some."
"Huh?"
"We're done here."
Cyras fox jumped at Owlis, but Owlis flipped her over. The younger fox ran at her. Scoop slam. Buck - slap, uppercut - headbutt. Another charge, arm drag.
"You're getting quicker," Owlis admitted.
Cyras smirked at her. "Lightning might be quicker than fire, but let's see if you are."
Owlis shook her head and waved her away.
So first thing is the scene starts off with Owlis telling Cyras to sit her little butt in the chair. In retrospect, this is definitely not how I imagine Owlis talking, which is why this part probably gets cut out.
The first digital draft was written without referencing the journal, so a lot of the writing is different.
In this version, the stitching is actually fine, as a way of saying the tailor would make a good quality dress that fits. However, they cannot make a good quality dress in appearance. I feel like this is a more reasonable alternative.
The fight is way quicker, because this version is actually portrayed earlier. Instead of the passion of every part, the parts are skipped over, making this seem more rote, and practiced.
The fight has a less smooth lead-in but ends with a better roast.
This is the third version of the scene.
Cyras rarely thought of Owlis as gentle, but as she sat in a hardwood chair, she felt a comb cascading over her fur tuffs smoothly. The wildborn refused grooming from anyone else, and every servant who attempted got a sharp edge of teeth, therefore the only one who wasn't hit with white fangs was her.
Perfume sprayed into the air and onto hair. Nose wrinkling, Cyras thought, I'd rather my own musk instead of smelling like a strawberry's armpit.
Ryvoh always yelled, screamed, or kept a strict order through threat of slaps and bites. She was angry and melancholic, always seemingly haunted by something else, but ultimately protective and leaderlike. On the other paw, Owlis was angry, but in a more fair way, and she was also easily humored. Elegant instead of crass, strong but gentle. Introverted, but caring. Still had the slapping part down, but even that was for more reasonable purposes than getting someone to not speak out of turn, in fact, Owlis permitted that Cyras stand up for herself.
Owlis rubbed some stray strands down. "Making oneself look respectable for a party requires several steps. This is step one, done." She picked Cyras under her arms and placed her down. "Next is dresses."
"I don't even know if I want a party." These parties required lots of planning and adherence towards new rules, like some kind of dance. Rituals held for no other reason than she was born on that day.
Owlis laughed, high pitched. "If only." She walked through a door in the back of her room, leading Cyras through. They crossed white tiles of bathroom towards another door, showing racks of clothes.
Hooks grinded against metal as the purple fox searched for one in particular. "I hate my own birthday as well Cyras. Most celebrate theirs only once every couple of years and I envy that. However, the party is about you, but for you."
"That doesn't even make any sense," Cyras protested, her tail shaking vigorously. She stomped her paw down. "Why do I have to have a party if I don't want one?"
"For your friends, your family, and for the people. And this is what the people want. And, this is what the people want you to wear."
The dress came in sight. A type of faint green like vomit mixed in with a strong red. Nauseating.
"Avocadon't green mixed with pukey brown," Cyras said, her voice trailing off. "Great."
Owlis' eyes glazed over. "The tailor did his best work, I'm sure."
"I'm not wearing that if I was set on fire and that was the only way I could put that out and no that doesn't make any sense but I'm not touching that thing!"
"Just wear the dress at the event."
"No, that's disgusting."
"Look, just play with your friends for now, okay?"
Cyras smirked at the word "play" as Owlis' back was to her. She jumped.
As usual, the older fox grabbed her, midair, and slammed her on her tailbone. But, Cyras lurched onto her side and bucked at Owlis' hips.
She slapped Cyras' soles, but several sparks came from the paws. Gasping, she retreated as a flaming tail came from the side.
Duck, jump over, but Cyras came with a flaming right cross, however the older fox bit down on the wrist, and brought her elbow into Cyras' core, right on stomach, under ribs. A squeak came from Cyras.
Swerving her hips, Owlis got Cyras on her spine, before circling until the wrist almost faced the opposite way.
With a roll, Cyras dislodged the grip, but her tail was towards the Empress. She dodged a bite near her rump.
"You're getting awfully close towards joining Ahmond, and you already know how I tan hides," Owlis threatened. "I don't permit FIRE in the palace."
"If an enemy attacks me," Cyras said, "I'm hitting with anything I've got."
"You can't even hit."
Cyras growled and sulked away from Owlis.
She ran through the hallways and down the stairs, all while plotting. Owlis was clever, Owlis was quick, but Cyras was gonna beat her slick. Rigid and inflexible, versus careful and cunning.
With this draft is a more casual look at Ryvoh. A quick thought towards her never hurts. There's also a smoother battle scene, with Cyras' butt actually being near Owlis' fangs which explains better why she snaps there. Foxes naturally bite each others' rumps after winning a battle.
This version also adds the flames of the battle.
Fusing both versions creates a more completed looking story.
I'm going to skip several drafts now, to the final draft.
Final Draft:
Cyras rarely thought of Owlis as gentle, but as she sat in a hardwood chair, the comb cascaded over her fur tuffs smoothly. The wildborn refused grooming from anyone else, and every servant who attempted got a sharp edge of teeth.
Ryvoh always yelled, screamed, or kept a strict order through the threat of slaps and bites. She was angry and melancholic, haunted, but ultimately protective and leaderlike. On the other hand, Owlis was angry, but in a fair way, and she was also easily humored. Elegant instead of crass, firm but gentle. Introverted, but caring. Still slapped but for logical reasons instead of merely speaking out of turn, in fact, Owlis permitted that Cyras stand up for herself.
Perfume sprayed hair. Nose wrinkling, Cyras thought, I'd rather my own musk instead of smelling like a strawberry's armpit.
Owlis rubbed some stray strands down. "Making oneself look respectable for a party requires several steps. This is step one, done." She picked Cyras under her arms and placed her down. "Next is dresses."
"I don't even know if I want a party." These parties required lots of planning and rules, like some kind of dance. Rituals held for no other reason than a mere accident of her being born on a specific day.
Owlis laughed, high-pitched. "If only." She walked through a door in the back of her room, leading Cyras through.
Fabrics hung on racks. Hooks scraped against metal as scarves and shirts and dresses flew by. "I hate my own birthday as well. Most celebrate theirs once every couple of years and I envy that. However, the party isn't for you, just about you."
"That doesn't even make any sense," Cyras protested, her tail shaking vigorously. She stomped her paw down. "Why do I have to have a party if I don't want one?"
"For your friends, your family, and for the people. And this is what the people want. And, this is what the people want you to wear."
The dress came in sight. A type of faint green-like vomit mixed in with a strong red. Nauseating.
"Avocadon't green," Cyras said, her voice trailing off. "Great."
Owlis' eyes glazed over. "The tailor did his best work, I'm sure."
"I'm not wearing that if I was freezing to death!"
"Just wear the dress at the event."
"No, that's disgusting."
"Look, just play with your friends for now," Owlis said as she shuffled the dress away. Back into the void of fabric.
Cyras smirked at the word "play" as Owlis' back was to her. She jumped.
As usual, the older fox grabbed her in midair and slammed her on her tailbone. But, Cyras lurched onto her side and bucked at Owlis' hips.
She slapped Cyras' soles, but several sparks came from the paws. Gasping, she retreated as a flaming tail came from the side.
Duck on the tail swing, jump over the other, but Cyras came with a flaming right punch, however, she got bit on the wrist. Tight grip. Owlis elbowed Cyras' core. She squeaked.
Swerving her hips, Owlis got Cyras on the floor. Bite still locked, she circled until the wrist almost faced the opposite way.
Claws flexing from the pain, Cyras rolled and dislodged the grip, but her tail was towards the Empress. She dodged a bite near her rump.
"Next time, I'll take a chunk of flesh," Owlis threatened. "I don't permit FIRE in the palace."
"If an enemy attacks me," Cyras said, "I'm hitting with anything I've got."
"You can't even hit."
Cyras growled and sulked away from Owlis.
She ran through the hallways and down the stairs, all while plotting. Owlis was clever, Owlis was quick, but Cyras was gonna beat her slick. Rigid and inflexible, versus careful and cunning.
She wasn't going to wear that stupid ugly dress under any circumstances. And she would punch her. Anyway, for today's work, ice cream shop.
This is the version presented.
The fight is always getting a bit better. In this version, Cyras actually starts mounting a real comeback, until Owlis quickly disables her.
The end also goes more with the jump over the candlestick joke. There's not really new developments, just revisements. The spanking reference is replaced with the more brutal idea of removing a chunk of flesh.
Honestly I don't like the Avocadon't Green mixed with pukey brown line, but I felt like Avocadon't was a good enough pun.
In this version, instead of Cyras screaming about how awful the dress is and she'd rather not put that on even if there was a fire, she just says she'd rather freeze. Apparently I thought the previous idea of not wearing the dress if there was a fire was overblown.
The differences become less visible through the drafts. Rewriting becomes revising. Now, lemme explain the psychology.
So I love this scene.
Final Draft:
Cyras rarely thought of Owlis as gentle, but as she sat in a hardwood chair, the comb cascaded over her fur tuffs smoothly. The wildborn refused grooming from anyone else, and every servant who attempted got a sharp edge of teeth. (Part of the point is giving the first time Cyras sees Owlis as peaceful. We also get the implication of trust between the two.)
Ryvoh always yelled, screamed, or kept a strict order through the threat of slaps and bites. She was angry and melancholic, haunted, but ultimately protective and leaderlike. On the other hand, Owlis was angry, but in a fair way, and she was also easily humored. Elegant instead of crass, firm but gentle. Introverted, but caring. Still slapped but for logical reasons instead of merely speaking out of turn, in fact, Owlis permitted that Cyras stand up for herself.
Perfume sprayed hair. Nose wrinkling, Cyras thought, I'd rather my own musk instead of smelling like a strawberry's armpit. (The word musk implies a natural scent, even if somewhat gross. Cyras is saying she'd rather not smell fake.)
Owlis rubbed some stray strands down. "Making oneself look respectable for a party requires several steps. This is step one, done." She picked Cyras under her arms and placed her down. "Next is dresses." (Picking Cyras up shows Owlis' strength. This also makes Cyras seem a lot younger, while erstwhile pushing Owlis as being much older and sagelier. Cyras is a child being picked up and carried, and here, she's being put lower than Owlis by Owlis' actions.)
"I don't even know if I want a party." These parties required lots of planning and rules, like some kind of dance. Rituals held for no other reason than a mere accident of her being born on a specific day.
Owlis laughed, high-pitched. "If only." She walked through a door in the back of her room, leading Cyras through. (Owlis isn't really a social butterfly. Therefore, this hints at a slight depression that goes on beyond time, having to sacrifice herself for everyone's betterment again and again, almost like a mother for her children.)
Fabrics hung on racks. Hooks scraped against metal as scarves and shirts and dresses flew by. "I hate my own birthday as well. Most celebrate theirs once every couple of years and I envy that. However, the party isn't for you, just about you."
"That doesn't even make any sense," Cyras protested, her tail shaking vigorously. She stomped her paw down. "Why do I have to have a party if I don't want one?" (Lol, Cyras throws a little fit here.)
"For your friends, your family, and for the people. And this is what the people want. And, this is what the people want you to wear."
The dress came in sight. A type of faint green-like vomit mixed in with a strong red. Nauseating. (Ugh, I could have gone with a stronger version. I felt like the previous versions were exaggerated which is probably why I went with this watered down ketchup line about green like vomit and strong red.)
"Avocadon't green," Cyras said, her voice trailing off. "Great."
Owlis' eyes glazed over. "The tailor did his best work, I'm sure." (Owlis is trailing off, as even she knows the dress sucks. Eyes glazing over is a way of indirectly saying something, and usually indirectly saying something is more natural.)
"I'm not wearing that if I was freezing to death!"
"Just wear the dress at the event."
"No, that's disgusting."
"Look, just play with your friends for now," Owlis said as she shuffled the dress away. Back into the void of fabric. ("Look," implies a sense of annoyedness. Without mentioning Owlis' expressions, there's a sense of her breathing. She's sighing. Meanwhile, her face is actually fairly stoic.)
Cyras smirked at the word "play" as Owlis' back was to her. She jumped.
As usual, the older fox grabbed her in midair and slammed her on her tailbone. But, Cyras lurched onto her side and bucked at Owlis' hips.
She slapped Cyras' soles, but several sparks came from the paws. Gasping, she retreated as a flaming tail came from the side.
Duck on the tail swing, jump over the other, but Cyras came with a flaming right punch, however, she got bit on the wrist. Tight grip. Owlis elbowed Cyras' core. She squeaked.
Swerving her hips, Owlis got Cyras on the floor. Bite still locked, she circled until the wrist almost faced the opposite way.
Claws flexing from the pain, Cyras rolled and dislodged the grip, but her tail was towards the Empress. She dodged a bite near her rump.
"Next time, I'll take a chunk of flesh," Owlis threatened. "I don't permit FIRE in the palace."
"If an enemy attacks me," Cyras said, "I'm hitting with anything I've got."
"You can't even hit." (Dayum girl.)
Cyras growled and sulked away from Owlis.
She ran through the hallways and down the stairs, all while plotting. Owlis was clever, Owlis was quick, but Cyras was gonna beat her slick. Rigid and inflexible, versus careful and cunning.
She wasn't going to wear that stupid ugly dress under any circumstances. And she would punch her. Anyway, for today's work, ice cream shop. (And casual transitions on next part.)
Words are picked for a reason and being a poet on practice, none of these words were casually chosen. I went over each one, wondering whether this was the best. Maybe not. I can see a few choices I should have avoided. But while not as raw, I get a much different and more developed feeling from this scene now.
What we have is a child who is asking her older relative about a tradition that seems ridiculous. This is basically the same energy as "Why do I have to go to school? Why do we have to go to grandma's house? Why do we have to cook a turkey? Why do we have to go on a field trip?" And the older relative is old enough to understand why this is ridiculous, but can only tell her, "Because fuck you, that's why."
