MELIORISM, week 3, CP edits

[AnthonyEden]

Let me start by saying I had an absolute blast reading my feedback. Adria, Erin and Linda all gave me excellent pointers and plenty of encouragement to make this story better. Kudos to you!

However?

As I wrote in my first draft post, I wasn't sure about the story within the story. I love a good frame story, but I was just as ready to chuck it out the window in one of my revisions. I kept it for my 2nd draft, and the results this week are somewhat contradictory. Which makes it all the more fun, AND shows y'all that the process of beta reading/critique partnering can be a tricky beast to wrangle.

One of my CPs thought I should put the frame story back where I'd put it in draft 1, for instance. One CP didn't really see how it connected to the overarching story of the Narrator and that maybe it's a bit too rough around the edges (a critique echoed by another CP, that it isn't as Voice-y as the Narrator - and I wholeheartedly agree!). And the third CP thought it was poignant and worked well within the context.

Three CPs, three very different points of view. Which is exactly how it works!

So. What I take from the feedback overall is that my descriptions and language works, and my voice for the Narrator is spot on--but the frame story needs a bit of work, if I should keep it at all.

Okay. Let's go!

Content Warning: babes left in the woods by their mothers. Gruesome imagery/body horror vibes.

First run. Edits and thought process in bold:

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

((Okay, I like this better already.))

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain, where he plays the fiddle. ((This transition here feels a bit clunky, looking at it with fresh eyes. That needs to change.Maybeee? "--to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell, etc)) Thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together.

((Swapping places for the story within the story to here:
Once upon a time there was a crossroads, and three figures stood before it, given corporeal form. At the center stood Justice, and to its left was Revenge; to its right, Forgiveness.

Justice asked, "What is Forgiveness, if mortals never forget?"

Forgiveness had no answer.

Justice asked, "What is Revenge, if it comes too late?"

Revenge had no answer.

Justice said, "I shall tell you. Forgiveness is nothing unless its root is forgotten; Revenge is nothing if no one remembers where it stems from."

"And what of you, then?" asked Revenge, dissatisfied with the judgment.

"Yes, what of Justice?" asked Forgiveness.

Justice stood tall, and tilted its chin up. "I am the balancing scales, blind to the mortal measures of origin, creed and status. I care not for mortal constructs. When I mete out my verdict, both of you are satisfied."

"Nonsense!" cried Revenge, "We are never truly satisfied!"

"Hogwash," Forgiveness agreed. ((One CP felt this was ambiguous, that it wasn't clear what Forgiveness was agreeing to, and why say 'Hogwash'. I meant it as a way of Forgiveness agreeing with 'Nonsense!'))

But Justice wasn't done. "Which is why my work is never done, and my reach knows no bounds."

"You sanction genocide, and call it Justice," said Revenge.

"I never!" Justice stood firm. "Mortals do."

"And what about all the moneyed mortals who do more harm than good?" asked Forgiveness. "You think them Just, as well?"

"Not at all," said Justice. "They do."

And so it was, that they agreed to disagree: none of them were more than what mortals made of them, and while Revenge often came too late to serve its purpose, and Forgiveness meant very little on its own, but Justice was worst of them all.

Justice wasn't just blind, but changed its ways to please each mortal: all who spoke of it had their own idea of what it meant.

((But now that I've read it through again, I feel like the Narrator can get the point across without going into the story itself. I think the crossroads haz gots to go:))

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

((One CP felt the repetition of 'better' was a bit, well, repetitive, but as I repeated it deliberately (the Power of Three, and whatnot) I think I'll keep it. For now))

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

***

Okay. So that's my first run of edits, which leaves me at a whopping 735 words.  Last week I ended up with 1k exactly.

Second run. Edits and thought process in bold:

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people. And wickedness has a way of catching up with you, in the end.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together. ((One CP thought I needed more examples than the children, another said I should focus more on one idea: the "devil" luring the youths to their deaths, or the children in the woods, to avoid confusing the reader. What do? I think this is another case of Keeping It and Letting it Stew(TM). I do that a lot.))

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.
((OHO! An unprompted idea sparks! I have to swap places with this last paragraph and the one following! Let's do that :DDD))
I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

FINISHED VERSION, CP EDITS, 744 words. Last second changes in bold.

Meliorism

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain. He plays the fiddle, thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people. And wickedness has a way of catching up with you, in the end.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together.

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage. You need to forget in order to forgive, revenge is best served scalding hot and blistering, and justice is as blind as a bat without its sonar.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian. I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may change. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.

***

If you read all of this: thanks for sticking with me! And once again, thank you to my critique partners: your feedback was invaluable, helpful, and just...made me very happy and eager to get stuck in.