Writer In Motion: The Final Draft

Well, lovely readers, Writer In Motion has officially come to an end. After six weeks of writing, self-editing, gaining feedback, and sending it along to an editor, I can officially call this the craziest — and most amazing — project I’ve ever participated in. Despite what the title claims, I wouldn’t call this a final draft. Not for this project, anyways, but this is the most polished version of Saudade out there. A massive THANK YOU to Jeni Chappelle for being my editor this week.

Notes about Jeni’s edits: Because word-glitter (aka visual bombing) is kind of a bad habit of mine, I asked Jeni to highlight lines that were overly ornate. Part of being a writer means knowing areas of weakness and possessing a willingness to kill darlings. Balance, as I mentioned before, is key, and it’s very much a concept I’m still learning. Jeni’s edits were so helpful because I could easily see which areas were too much or just enough. Below are the edits she made, followed by the *final* draft of this first chapter.

“Sometimes it feels like you get lost in the poetry of your writing and lose the thread that makes it a story as the writing becomes overly symbolic or the imagery is too heavy-handed. There are plenty of places in this story that maintain that poetic voice without becoming too symbolic or flowery. Many of them are truly beautiful. So what I’ve done is highlight the areas that feel too heavy-handed in yellow and the areas that are poetic and still keep the story moving with teal. Hope this helps!”
Jeni Chappelle, Saudade edits

Honestly, Jeni knew exactly what my story issues were and made valuable suggestions. We all know word-glitter is a problem of mine, but I appreciated her efforts to point out where I was able to use my writing style to benefit the story — and areas in which my own style got in the way.

There were some places where the sentences or words were repetitive and I’m so glad she caught them. Repetition is a huge pet peeve of mine and it would have driven me insane if I ever noticed them there. This is why having a fresh pair of professional eyes on a manuscript is so important — they’re able to point to issues that typically hide in a writer’s blind spot and make suggestions unique to each story.

Jeni rocks! And I am so thankful for her meticulous editing <3

The Final Draft

Each breath I take fills me with the blackest water, and the taste of blood. Air bubbles rise to the surface as I reach out, the metal rivets of my knuckles aching from the cold liquid surrounding me. My wooden fingers curl around the empty space where your hand was moments before.

It was only moments before you had hoisted me over the side of the boat and cut the line between us with a rusted blade. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t answer any calls, even if it sounds like me. The sea won’t claim you. Your instructions trembled on your lips, your voice drowned out by the splintering of wood.

I grasp at nothing; the warmth of your hand is gone. I sink lower into the watery tomb of the Tyrrhenian Sea. But beneath the roiling waves, Charybdis embraces the base of our boat, all tentacles and teeth. A veil of light exposes its skeletal form of decaying suckers and scarred tissue. Jellyfish scatter frantically around me, their electric tendrils zapping me. I thrash toward the surface, choking down more water. Fear tears through me, propels my limbs against all reason.

Currents chew me up and spit me out, roaring in my ears, clawing at my hair, mimicking the way you once called my name. Atlas, Atlas! Where are you hiding? Come out and play.

I stiffen, driven between a feverish urge to follow the melody of your call — and the slow-sinking truth; it isn’t you, I tell myself. The way the ocean says my name is all wrong, too distant and disjointed — a choir without harmony. It’s then I know everything you ever told me is true: once the sea takes me into its embrace, it’d never let me go. It tricks and steals. It’s a cruel and cunning creature with no voice of its own, and it has no qualms about strumming the vocal cords of those lost at sea to get its way.

Lovely, lethal lies.

Lyra, Lyra, Lyra. The words are carved into the back of my throat. Even now, as I desperately search the waters for a sign of you, I can’t bring myself to say your name.

I’m terrified the sea might answer back.

I’m even more terrified you won’t.

I cling to debris, the white letters of the WIND DANCER stark in the fading light. Deafening is the sea’s echo of your voice as it becomes fragments in the night. Blinding is the sight of our life together escaping to the stars as embers and ash, no more memory than wind. I watch, trembling, as tentacles slither around the final mast of our ship. Our home. It cracks the way bones do, gasps for breath as water rushes in. It hovers between the sea and stars, imbued with gold and nightfall and scattered memories.

Then I see them. The silhouettes of corpses are a floating path back to the center of hell.

I clutch the debris so tightly the tips of my fingers chip and chafe, but it doesn’t hurt. The only pain cutting through me is a dizzying thought–the nightmare of never finding you. Dread spreads through my body like rust, immobilizing me, weighing me down. I gasp, straining against the tangle of strings and torn fabric of my dress, which knots around my limbs.

The horizon is a thin ribbon of surrender now, a smoldering tangerine light. No moon dances across the sky, no shred of hope once the curtain falls. The mouth of the sea spreads open beneath me; our world, Lyra, spills into the inky unknown. I sense it, then. The smooth, clear face of the compass embedded in my chest cracks, the needle spinning wildly. I lay a hand over it and whimper. Our boat is sinking. The maps are gone. And now….

Now I’m broken with no one to fix me.

Where are you? The words are on my tongue. They taste of salt and rusted metal. They are heavier than the rest of me, but I can’t part with them.

All dying things cry out in vain, the puppeteer, Lolite, told us. They shine brightest at the door of death. It was before we sailed for Vallumoira. Before our celestial compass led us through the Ionian Sea. Before the letters came and went like paper birds in the summer. Before I learned to breathe and paint and sing.

Before you cut my strings with clumsy, nervous fingers, and carved peonies into the wood of my body. A woodcarver’s apprentice, your small hands were kind and careful, each etching made with unwavering intent. Lolite called it troublesome, especially for girls who had no business dabbling in things they didn’t understand.

But you called it a promise. A kind of magic that could only exist between maker and doll. We belong together, Atlas. Always and forever. I’ll make sure of it….

Except it wasn’t your promise to make.

And the sea knows, doesn’t it? Our secret is floating in the water.

I cry out as the mast of our home snaps, and the sail is swallowed by swelling waves and evergreen tendrils. It’s a strange and strangled sound that leaves me. It takes the strength out of my fingers and I slip from the debris, catching sight of beady red eyes rising out of the blackness. Charybdis gorged itself on the bow of our boat, a whirlpool of water swirling around it.

The sea’s song dissolves into an eerie, melodious wail, and it reaches for me. The water swells until it surrounds me, but it’s you I hear; it’s you closing around me in a death hold. Isn’t it?

Atlas, Atlas! Come and play.

Lyra, Lyra. Where are you?

Isn’t it?

At the world’s edge, our life bleeds from Terra Firma to Aether to Oceana. The brightest reds and golds and yellows of heaven spill into the blackest waters I breathe. Tentacles unfurl around me. Slivers of wood and shrapnel cloud the water. I cry out for you until my throat is raw, until the sound of your name is indecipherable, until I cannot tell who is alive and who is dying.

Is it me?

Is it you?

The compass comes to a dead stop, and all the air leaves me as I follow the south-pointing needle. Down, down, down into the devouring depths where an uneven gate of teeth unhinges, and rises to greet me.

Where Will Saudade Go Next?

I have a rough outline with plans to turn SAUDADE into a novella, but that’s not set in stone. I know how this story ends and bits of what will take place in the middle, but since my focus is on other projects at the moment, these will remain mere notes for awhile. Part of my decision to set this aside is due to how heavy the topic is. SAUDADE is a tragedy. It’s a story centered around sacrifice, grief, and the inevitable loss of childhood.

Bodies betray. Memories lie. There are places we can go, but never return from. Not in the same condition, at least. No matter which way I look at it, the ending of SAUDADE will never be the same HEA we expect from fairy-tales. There are no dragons to battle or princesses to save; there’s no great evil to overcome. There is life, and the mistakes people make. There are the ways we love them anyway, against all logic. I want to leave it up to Atlas to decide what happiness means to her, and for readers to decide for themselves along the journey. So be patient with us, lovelies.

Writer In Motion was challenging, but it was fun and full of encouraging souls. That’s actually what I loved most about this event: getting to know fellow writers and their amazing stories. When you get the chance, check out their final drafts:

Writer In Motion: The Final Draft

Jeni rocks! And I am so thankful for her meticulous editing <3

The *Final* Draft

Where Will Saudade Go Next?

The Final Draft