Reading + Editing My Old Writing

I have always wanted to make a blog post on this, but there were a few things always holding me back. 1) I always thought this would be easier to share through video rather than a blog post 2) my old writing sucks. However, I thought it would be a fun post to try and tackle, and hopefully it will give you a few laughs because of how terrible my writing was! I like to think I have become a lot better over the years, but who knows.

Okay, so today I will be editing an excerpt I found from one of my NaNoWriMo projects from back in 2015…so just over two and a half years ago when I was fourteen years old. I actually won NaNoWriMo that year, ending off at about 53,000 words which was awesome. However, the story I wrote was not outlined, and had no overall point to it really. It was fun though. It was a YA fantasy about an assassin with magical powers who scours the earth to take revenge on the people who killed her parents..other than that I cannot remember a single thing but here is the prologue I wrote for it! How this is going to work is I am going to paste the prologue below, and then paste it again where I make edits and notes and basically make fun of what I wrote. Let’s get editing!


Prologue

London, 1862

I stroke the wooden paint brush across the rough paper.  An image of what my perfect painting will look like flashes in my mind and relaxes the tense muscles in my hand. The paint brush takes full control over my small hand and lets colour bleed onto the page. Swirls of oranges and pinks swarm together, lining the green fields and creating the hazy sunrise. I swipe it across the paper one last time and grin at my final piece, knowing my father will be proud. I jump up to my feet and dust off my light blue nightgown and then zip out of the room like a buzzing bee that sees a flourishing flower.

I come to a skidding halt in front of my parents’ bedroom and a warm sensation washes over me as I put a huge childish grin on my face. Their bedroom is a fair size but quite empty. A scarred, ebony dresser with three wide drawers is pushed against the far wall, next to a tall window. The broken floorboards creak as I scurry onto their short double bed that is draped with plain white blankets and a few lightly stuffed cream pillows.

“Father! Mother! Look what I painted!” I announce happily, showing off my painting of the beautiful sunrise overlooking the luscious green fields. My father takes the corner of the painting and the corners of his lip turn up. He runs a hand through his messy brown hair and then passes the painting to my mother who slips on her reading glasses. A soft smile spreads across her face and she gives an approving nod.

Suddenly a loud bang echoes throughout the small house and voices boom from outside. My parents hastily bounce off the bed as if they have been expecting this and the next thing I know my mother is yanking me by the arm, leading me out of the room. I try to ask what was happening but my mother shushes me as she ushers me into my tiny bedroom. A candle burns faintly on my nightstand, next to my cracked leather journal that I write in every night before I go to sleep.

My mother wiggles open my closet door and shoves aside my clothes, clearing them away so we can see the back wall. I bite my lip, feeling worried and confused. Where was my father? Who are those strange men? Why were they here? So many questions swirl around in my head, making me dizzy and nauseous as if my father picked me up and spun me around like he always did when I was a small child. It was fun while it was happening but after I would have to lie down to settle my stomach.

“Mother, I don’t feel well.” I whisper, my voice shaking. My mother gently places her hands on my shoulders and stares at me with her emerald eyes, the ones she passed on to me. She twirls a strand of my curly brown hair around her finger then releases it. Her eyes are filled with tears which trigger the ones that swim around in mine.

“You cannot feel sick, Katie. You have to be brave, smart and strong,” She whispers sharply, “Now, you need to exit out of this tunnel and then run as fast as you can away from this house. Do not wait for your father and I because-” Her voice breaks a little bit but she continues, “Your father and I may not make it out.” I look at my mother and I am about to ask why they cannot just come with me now but loud footsteps pound in the hallway and she quickly whips open a secret door and throws me inside. I glance down the long tunnel that stretches far then wraps tightly around a corner. A few torches are hung on the stone walls, providing a few patches of dull light. I spin around but my mother shuts the door, leaving me alone in the confined, musty tunnel. My legs tremble as tears streak my pale cheeks, dripping off onto my nightgown. I want to kick the door open and be with my mother and father but they told me different. I quickly back away from the door then start sprinting, trying to stifle the sobs that pour out of me like a rushing waterfall.


Prologue

London, 1862

I stroke the wooden paint brush across the rough paper.  An image of what my perfect painting will look like flashes in my mind, and relaxes relaxing the tense muscles in my hand. The paint brush takes full control over of my small hand, and lets bright colours suddenly bleeding onto the page. Swirls of oranges and pinks swarm together, lining the green fields and creating the a hazy sunrise. I swipe it across the paper one last time, and grinning at my final piece. knowing my Father will be proud, I think to myself as I jump up to my feet, and dust off my light blue nightgown, and then zip out of the room like a buzzing bee. that sees a flourishing flower.

(This wasn’t the worst paragraph ever, it just had a lot of words I didn’t need in it…clearly due to all the crossing out I did. I like to think I have gotten better at keeping my sentences to the point, and not adding useless words just for the heck of it because it can become a serious problem down the road!)

I come to a skidding halt in front of my parents’ bedroom, and a warm sensation washes over me as I put a huge, childish grin on my face. Their bedroom is a fair size but quite empty. A scarred, ebony dresser with three wide drawers is pushed against the far wall, next to a tall window. The broken floorboards creak as I scurry onto their short double bed that which is draped with plain white blankets, and a few two lightly stuffed cream pillows tucked underneath.

“Father! Mother! Look what I painted!” I announce happily, showing off shoving my painting into their faces of the beautiful sunrise overlooking the luscious green fields. My father takes the corner of the painting it, and the corners of his lip turn up. He runs a hand through his messy brown hair and then before passing the painting to my mother who slips on her reading glasses. She slips on her glasses, a soft smile spreading across her face as she gives an approving nod.

Suddenly a loud bang echoes throughout the small house and voices boom from outside. Bang. The sound echoes through the house, footsteps booming from down the hall. My parents hastily bounce jump off the bed, a strange look passing between them. as if they have been expecting this and the next thing I know my mother is yanking me by the arm, leading me out of the room. My mother lunges towards me and grips my arm before yanking me out of the room and down the hall. I try to ask what was is happening but my mother shushes me, as she ushers ushering me into my tiny bedroom. A candle burns faintly on my nightstand, next to it, my cracked leather journal. that I write in every night before I go to sleep.

(Again, these last few paragraphs weren’t awful…although if I were to get to them to what I deem “good” I would have to scrap it all and rewrite it. For the sake of this blog post, I tried to save as much as I could, only crossing out words and changing the wording slightly. It is so weird seeing my writing process from when I was fourteen, seeing how I worded things and shaped sentences. Parts of it make me cringe, a lot, but it is nice to see that I have grown a lot as a writer!)

My mother wiggles yanks open my closet door, shoving and shoves aside my clothes, clearing them away so we can see the back wall. I bite my lip, feeling worried and confused worry and confusion pushing down on my chest, their strong hands squeezing my pounding heart. Where was my father? Who are those strange men? Why were they here? So many questions swirl around in my head, making me dizzy and nauseous as if like when my father picked me up and spun me around like he always did when I was a small child. It was fun while it was happening but after I would have to lie down to settle my stomach.

“Mother, I don’t feel well.” I whisper, my voice shaking. My mother gently places her hands on my shoulders and stares at me with her emerald eyes., the ones she passed on to me. She twirls a strand of my curly brown hair around her finger then releases it. Her eyes are filled with tears which trigger the ones that swim around in mine.

“You cannot feel sick, Katie. You have to be brave, smart and strong,” She whispers sharply,“Now, you need to exit out of this tunnel follow this tunnel to the end. There you will find a ladder. I need you to climb up it and then run as fast as you can away from this house. Do not wait for your father and I because…” Her voice breaks a little bit but she takes a staggered breath and she continues, “because your father and I may not make it out.” I look at my mother and I am about to ask why they cannot just come with me now, but loud footsteps pound in the hallway and she quickly whips open a secret door and throws me inside. A tear slides down her mother’s cheek as she pushes past me, fingers gripping a doorknob sticking out of my closet wall. The door swings open and my lips part. I try to speak, try to let the pressing questions in my head fall from my lips but my mother pushes me through the secret door, and suddenly, I am swallowed up my darkness. I glance over my shoulder, down at the long tunnel I glance down the long tunnel that stretches far behind me before then wraps wrapping tightly around a corner. A few torches are hung on the stone walls, providing a few patches of dull light. I spin around but my mother shuts the door with a loud sob, leaving me alone in the dancing shadows in the confined, musty tunnel. My legs tremble as and fat tears streak my pale cheeks, dripping off onto my nightgown. I want to kick the door open and be with my mother and father but I know I can’t they told me different. I quickly back away from the door then start sprinting, trying to stifle the sobs that pour out of me like a rushing waterfall.

Okaaay. Well that was fun, wasn’t it? Very cringey at times but honestly, it was a lot better than I expected. It was really fun to look back on my writing and realize what I do better now then I did back then. I encourage you all to do the same if you are feeling a bit down on your writing because by reading your old work, you will finally be able to see the progress you have made as a writer. All the progress after spending hours glued to your laptop, lost in a world created by nothing but the vast of your imagination.

I hope you enjoyed this very long blog post and don’t forget to check out my last blog post, which is linked below! Also, follow me on social media so I can follow you back 🙂

Last Blog Post: Summer 2018 TBR

Other Places You Can Find Me:

Twitter:@zoermathers

Instagram: @zoematherswrites

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