WIM R3: The Final Draft

Welcome back to the final week of Writer In Motion! This week, I was super lucky to swap critiques with another round of incredible CPs—Melissa Bergum and Shayna Grissom.

Definitely one of my (many) favorite things about Writer In Motion is getting to read all these awesome stories and marveling at the depth of atmosphere created in under 1000 words! Melissa’s adorable MG is about a spunky witch named Tilda who, alongside her pet spark Bluey, casts the greatest spell there ever was. And Shayna’s creepy story about two brothers wraps up with a horrifying twist. Please go check them out!

Now for the details of my final revision. Melissa and Shayna had only a few comments, but they were helpful, and I made changes based on most of their feedback:

  • Clarify whether the narrator lived
  • Clarify who attacked the narrator (was it the people who took the child or something else?)
  • Avoid repetition of “crawled”
  • Fix sentence structure

There was one other very thoughtful suggestion I decided not to incorporate, which was to clarify whether the child was kidnapped. I’ll talk about why in a minute. But first, here is HOME in its final resting place—short at under 500 words and sweet at 61 syllables per stanza body!

HOME

(499 words)

They took you from me that day.

 You left me behind and said your goodbyes, but the tears in your eyes told me it was never your choice to leave. Your face pressed against the car window and your voice calling out my name seared into my brain like a map leaving a trail for me to follow.

I ran away that night.

When all was dark and quiet and no one suspected a thing, I left behind what was ours to bring you back again. But where would I start? Where would I go? All I had was that memory of you in my head leading me along like an unraveled string.

I took to the roads.

Miles and miles of shiny black asphalt teeming with cars going far too fast for this old boy—I must admit it frightened me plenty. But I didn’t go back. I braved traffic and carried on, hugging the fragile yellow line that marked the shoulder to safety.

I saw the turn.

My gut twisted in knots, roping me sideways, and I knew without a doubt that’s where they’d taken you. The woods loomed dense with evil, but for you I’d go. So I veered from steady lights and marched into darkness, wondering if I’d make it out alive again.

Wolves found me.

They hunted me down no matter how carefully I stepped, for hungry beasts under moonlight sense fear like prey. Though old and weary, I clung to your strength through our woven bond to survive their wicked teeth and their whetted claws. But they left me barely standing.

I crawled.

I dragged through the mud and the muck and the uprooted trees to the stream I heard bubbling nearby like salvation. I drank from its bank to relieve my parched throat, but there was no relief for the gash in my side gushing blood, hot as lava. Was this the end?

I saw light.

The light everyone talks about when the time comes after a long life well lived, do you know it? It came for me from behind the trees atop the knoll like a beacon of hope, but I fought it like mad for I wasn’t yet ready. Not ’til I found you first.

I heard your voice.

It was your voice that came from that light, a lulling ebb and flow that sang to me like a lullaby I recognized from years ago. I followed your song to the top of that hill until my last thread of strength gave out, and I fell limp at your glowing door.

I heard you running.

It was really you behind the door, crying in disbelief, tears pouring down your face like a rushing waterfall. You wrapped your tiny arms around my filthy matted fur and whispered words of love, breathing life back into my tired broken body.

Then you tucked me in 
Like the end of a string,
Making our reel whole again,
And with you, I’m finally home.

This story is an ode to the unconditional love and loyalty of pets, something true that speaks to many of us and never grows old!

In writing this piece, I had imagined a young child being forced to leave her best friend behind for a weekend trip to a remote cabin in the woods with people who were family, yet also strangers—perhaps an absentee father trying to mend his ways, along with his new wife, the child’s stepmother.

At first, I added a new stanza to the beginning with some backstory to see how it worked.

I knew you weren’t happy with them.

The man you called Father, along with his new bride, came to make their amends, but you said you didn’t buy it. Despite how Mama tried, some spurns just burn too deep. A real bond is made of love and loyalty, not abandonment, the way it is with you and me.

While I liked it okay on a standalone basis, I thought it took away from the mystery of the story. Once we knew she was with her father, our fear for the child’s safety diminished, along with the urgency for our narrator (the dog) to save her. So in the end, I decided to leave it out and keep that backstory unknown.

I wanted to let the events unfold through the dog’s point of view, when he didn’t have all of the information. Although the child wasn’t kidnapped, in his mind, she might as well have been. In his heart, he knew she was taken from him against her will, and so he risked life and limb to be home with her again. 

I hope you’ve enjoyed my journey bringing HOME to completion and seeing how CP feedback helped me polish my story when I was simply too close to see some things objectively. Sometimes, we find that not all feedback jive with the direction we want our stories to take, but that’s totally okay too! In many ways, it actually helps us by making an idea even more concrete in our own heads.

Thanks for reading and for another great season of WIM! Until next time â¤ï¸

Don't miss out on other WIM writers' final drafts!

Head on over to the Writer In Motion official blog and forum for more amazing shorts, all born from the same prompt!

WIM R3: The CP Draft

In Week 3 of Writer In Motion, we sent our self-edited drafts out to our first round of critique partners (CPs) and revised our stories based on their feedback.

I was very fortunate to be matched up with the talented Sara Bond and Dani Frank, whose stories may happen to be on the opposite ends of the emotional spectrum but on the same tier of fantastic! I loved their writing styles and am so grateful for their valuable insights on HOME improvement =) Here are some of their suggestions that I’ve incorporated into this latest revision:

  • Both loved the string metaphor at the beginning and end of the poem and thought it would make more impact if I could weave in more references throughout. You’ll see in my revisions where I threaded a few in =)
  • The tense shifts were jarring, so I changed the poem to past tense, with the exception of the last line. I kept that line in present tense to convey the image of the narrator being home, telling the tale of his journey
  • Some words didn’t translate well and could use better phrasing

Sara’s and Dani’s in-line comments made perfect sense to me, and I managed to make the changes while keeping my syllable count the same at 61 per stanza body, woohoo!

Since this piece is so short, the changes may appear subtle, but I definitely think they add a boost to this revision!

Home

(502 words)

They took you from me that day.

 You left me behind and said your goodbyes, but the tears in your eyes told me it was never your choice to leave. Your face pressed against the car window and your voice calling out my name seared into my brain like a map leaving a trail for me to follow.

I ran away that night.

When all was dark and quiet and no one suspected a thing, I left behind what was ours to bring you back again. But where would I start? Where would I go? All I had was that memory of you in my head leading me along like an unraveled string.

I took to the roads.

Miles and miles of shiny black asphalt teeming with cars going far too fast for this old boy—I must admit it frightened me plenty. But I didn’t go back. I braved traffic and carried on, hugging the fragile yellow line that marked the shoulder to safety.

I saw the turn.

The knot formed deep in my gut roped me sideways, and I knew without a doubt that’s where they’d taken you. The woods loomed dense with evil, but for you I’d go, so I veered from steady lights and marched into darkness, wondering if I’d make it out alive again.

They found me.

They hunted me down no matter how carefully I stepped, for hungry beasts under moonlight sense fear like prey. Though old and weary, I clung to your strength through our woven bond to survive their wicked teeth and their whetted claws. But they left me barely standing.

I crawled.

I crawled through the mud and the muck and the uprooted trees to the stream I heard bubbling nearby like salvation. I drank from its bank to relieve my parched throat, but there was no relief for the gash in my side gushing blood, hot as lava. Was this the end?

I saw light.

The light everyone talks about when the time comes after a long life well lived, do you know it? It came for me from behind the trees atop the knoll like a beacon of hope, but I fought it like mad for I wasn’t yet ready. Not ’til I found you first.

I heard your voice.

It was your voice that came from that light, a lulling ebb and flow that sang to me like a lullaby I recognized from years ago. I followed your song to the top of that hill until my last thread of strength gave out, and I fell limp at your glowing door.

I heard you running.

It was really you behind the door, crying in disbelief, tears pouring down your face like a rushing waterfall. You wrapped your tiny arms around my filthy matted fur and whispered words of love, mending every wound on my tired broken body.

Then you tucked me in 

Like the end of a string,

Making our reel whole again,

And with you, I’m finally home.

I’ll be sending this version to my second round of critique partners and processing their feedback in next week’s post. As always, thanks for following along â¤ï¸

If you’d like to find out how other Writers In Motion handle and apply CP feedback, head on over to the Writer In Motion official blog and forum and check out their amazing progress!

WIM R3: The Self-Edited Draft

Welcome back, friends! It’s the second week of Writer In Motion, where we dive in and polish up our first drafts.

Much to my pleasant surprise last week, my draft came out in verse like a Bob Ross happy accident! Now let me start by saying I’m no expert in this style of writing, and I probably broke a whole bunch of rules, but it’s fun and it’s fine! So I’m gonna give this thing a creative WIM license and just go with it =)

When it comes to revisions, the first thing I do is make sure the story has all the main plot elements. Since this is a super short piece, I’m going to stick to the big three:

  1. The inciting incident (Narrator loses his loved one and sets off on a search)
  2. The dark journey and climax (He wanders the streets and meets the antagonistic force in the woods)
  3. The resolution (He survives the fight and finds his loved one again)

Luckily, I managed to hit all of that in the first draft, so the next things to consider are:

  1. Characterization
  2. Pacing
  3. Worldbuilding

For a 500-word piece, I think I did okay here. I may expand in the next round of revisions if  my critique partner (CP) feels it could use more, but for now, I’m pretty happy with it.

Finally, I look at the grammatical and aesthetic details. Although I really enjoyed free handing the first draft, I wanted to mold it into a more meaningful structure after seeing how it appeared on the screen. So the next thing I did was color-code and count the following elements in each “stanza”:

  • rhyming words (paired in yellow and pink highlights)
  • sound repetitions (in blue highlights)
  • syllable counts (in red brackets)

Then I studied the stanzas to see if any patterns emerged from the color coding. Here’s what I found:

  • At least one pair of rhymes (or close enough) in each
  • Alliteration scattered throughout
  • Syllable count in the “body” ranging from 55 – 66, with an average of 61. Wow, that actually came out closer than I thought!

I’m not too concerned about the rhymes matching up perfectly in this piece because I wanted to retain a little of the freestyle spirit (while stealthily adding structure, hah!). As for the alliteration, I absolutely loved it and wanted to add more sound repetitions. And finally, since I’m kind of a number-obsessed geek, I wanted to make the syllable count mean something, so here’s what I decided to do:

  • Use the syllable count of each “header” line to convey the narrator’s emotional state (Decrease the count as we approach the climax. Then expand again as we reach the ending)
  • Form each stanza “body” with exactly 61 syllables

Then I fiddled with my syllable counts and traded words in and out until I got the word flow and numbers on target. Ready to see what all that wrangling looks like? Brace yourself, it’s a little crazy!

 

Obviously, I’ve never done this type of revision before, but in my attempt to visually show my process, this is what I came up with lol! So sorry, friends, if you found that confusing. But here I present to you the more readable self-edited version, clocking in at 497 words.

Home

(497 Words)

They took you from me that day.

You left me behind and said your goodbyes, but the tears in your eyes told me it was never your choice to leave. Your face pressed against the car window, desperately calling out my name, seared into my brain like a map leaving a trail for me to follow.

I ran away that night.

When all was dark and quiet and no one suspected a thing, I left behind what was ours to bring you back again. But where do I start? Where do I go? All I had was that memory of you in my head leading me along like an unraveled string.

I took to the roads.

Miles and miles of shiny black asphalt teeming with cars going far too fast for this old boy—I must admit it frightened me plenty. But I didn’t go back. I braved the seas and carried on, hugging the fragile yellow line that marked the shoulder to safety.

I saw the turn.

Something deep in my gut twisted sideways, and I knew without a doubt that’s where they’d taken you. The woods are dense with evil, but for you I’d go, so I veered from steady lights and headed into darkness, wondering if I’d make it out alive again.

They found me.

They hunted me down no matter how carefully I stepped, for hungry beasts under moonlight sense fear like prey. Though I am old and weary, my stubborn resolve trumped their strength, and I survived their wicked teeth, their whetted claws. But they left me barely standing.

I crawled.

I crawled through the mud and the muck and the uprooted trees to the stream I could hear bubbling nearby like salvation. I drank from its bank to relieve my parched throat, but there’s no relief for the gash in my side gushing blood, hot as lava. Was this the end?

I saw light.

The light everyone talks about when the time comes after a long life well lived, do you know it? It came for me from behind the trees atop the knoll like a beacon of hope, but I fought it like mad for I wasn’t yet ready. Not ’til I found you first.

I heard your voice.

It was your voice that came from that light, a lulling ebb and flow that sang to me like a lullaby I recognized from years ago. I followed your song to the top of that hill until my last ounce of strength gave out, and I fell limp at your glowing door.

I heard you running.

It’s really you behind the door, crying in disbelief, the tears pouring down your face like a rushing waterfall. You wrap your tiny arms around my filthy matted fur and whisper words of love that mend every wound on my tired broken body.

Then you tuck me in 
Like the end of a string,
Making our reel whole again,
And with you, I’m finally home.

That does it for my self-edited draft—I hope you enjoyed it! Next week, I’ll post my second round of revisions based on CP feedback. In the meantime, please check out the Writer In Motion official blog and Forum to see how other writers revised their first drafts, all born from the same picture prompt! ❤️

WIM R3: The First Draft

Hello friends! I’m so excited Writer In Motion’s back!

If you’re new to my blog, Writer In Motion is a fun project to show a writer’s revision process. Every season, participating writers draft a flash fiction piece based on a photo prompt. In the following weeks, they’ll revise their drafts with the help of critique partners and/or professional editors and blog about their process along the way. It’s a fantastic way to build community, learn new skills, and hone existing ones while also helping other writers. If you’re curious to know more, check out the official Writer In Motion website!

One of my favorite things about the prompt is the different ways it inspires people’s creativity. Like seasons past, this summer’s prompt is absolutely stunning! Although I had only planned to cheer on writers this season, as soon as I saw the picture, a story came to mind that begged to be written. This has never happened before! So I had to sit down and get the words out before they ran away. The lines poured out in a sort of rhythm, and the way they appeared on the page took on a life of their own and somehow morphed into something akin to…poetry??

It wasn’t what I’d planned, but I love how this draft turned out and hope you do too!

Home

(502 words)

They took you from me that day.

You said your goodbyes but the tears in your eyes told me it was never your choice to leave. Your face against the car window, desperately calling out my name, seared into my brain like a map leaving a trail for me to follow.

I left home that night.

When all was dark and quiet and no one suspected a thing, I left behind what was ours to bring you back again. But where do I start? Where do I go? All I had was that memory of you in my head leading me along like an unraveled string.

I took to the roads.

Miles and miles of shiny black asphalt teeming with cars going far too fast for this old boy, and I must admit it frightened me plenty. But I didn’t go back. I braved the seas and carried on, hugging the fragile yellow line that marked the shoulder of safety.

Until I saw the turn.

Something deep in my gut twisted sideways, and I knew without a doubt that’s where they’d taken you. The woods are dense with evil, but for you I’d go, so I veered from the lights and headed into the darkness wondering if I’d make it out alive again.

I was right.

They found me straight away no matter how carefully I stepped, for beasts under moonlight sense fear like prey. I am old and weary, but my resolve trumped their strength and prevailed through their gnashing teeth and claws, though they left me barely standing.

I crawled.

I crawled through the mud and the muck and the uprooted trees to the stream I could hear bubbling nearby like salvation. I drank from its bank to relieve my parching throat but there’s no relief for the gash in my side gushing blood, hot as lava. I thought it was the end of me. 

Then I saw the light.

The light everyone talks about when the time comes after a long life well lived, do you know it? It was coming for me from behind the trees atop the knoll like a beacon of hope, but I fought it like mad because I wasn’t yet ready. Not until I found you first.

I listened for your voice.

It was your voice that came from that light, a lulling ebb and flow that sang to me like a lullaby I recognized from all those years ago. I followed your song to the top of that hill as my last ounce of strength gave out and I fell limp at your glowing door.

I heard you running.

Heavens, it’s really you behind the door, crying in disbelief, the tears pouring down your face like a rushing waterfall. You wrap your arms around my filthy matted fur and whisper words of love that mend every wound on my tired broken body.

Then you tuck me in like the end of a string,

Making our reel whole again.

And with you, I’m home.

Thank you so much for reading and please come join me in cheering on other Writers In Motion! ❤️

WIM R2 Week 4: The Final Draft

Final Draft week for Writer In Motion Round 2 happened to fall alongside Thanksgiving, and with visiting family, I didn’t think I’d pull through on the post. But I’m so proud to report I made it, after recovering from a fantastic food hangover and an AMAZING football weekend! WOOT! Now that things have calmed down a little, it’s time to get back to work.

For the final critique round, I had help from my three wonderful, talented partners—RebeccaSKaeth, and Kristen! Together, they delivered thought-provoking feedback that dug deeper into my character and the story’s emotional impact, things I merely brushed over with my previous drafts. I took their comments to heart, noodling over each one and thinking of ways to address those I agreed with (most of them!).

For transparency’s sake, please behold, the beauty of my excellent critiques combined! I can’t stress this enough. Feedback like this is GOLD, and I couldn’t be more grateful to these amazing ladies for putting so much thought into my work.

After mulling over and incorporating my partners’ comments, I now present to you my final draft, inflated to 905 words! Changes are in bold.

The Crow on a Birch

Adult Contemporary – 905 Words

I perch on the edge of my seat. Across the table, the trio dressed in managerial blue feigns grief with down-turned lips. I can’t stand their false pity. Behind the veneer, their eyes are blank, their frowns practiced. I’m just another number they resent cutting a check for.

The middle one clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but the merger re-org has eliminated your position. I’m afraid we have to let you go.” His voice croaks, as if the words hurt him more than they do me.

You bastard! I want to shriek into his lying, scheming face. For all the years I’ve loved him, I truly hate him now. My jaw aches from the clench of my teeth, but I have only my own stupidity to blame.

Shame on me for believing I could ever be more than a pawn to him. He’d seduced me, made me believe there was more to life than optimized code. He’d lured from me my greatest work, claiming it for his own before dusting me aside like a pesky cobweb. He thinks my meekness means I’d never fight back, but he can’t risk keeping me around. Not on the off-chance I might expose his incompetence to his new chauvinistic partners.

Fury consumes me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of losing my cool. I refuse to let him see his betrayal break my composure, how he’s crushed my pride along with my heart.

I glare at him, watching him squirm, waiting for him to justify his actions. His theft I can stomach. Chalk it up to a lesson learned in naive trust. But to take away my job, the one thing I live for? He’s gone too far, and he knows it.

His tone turns pleading under my heated stare. “You’ll be pleased with the severance package. It’s enough to set you up for early retirement.”

Rage threatens to shred my last ounce of dignity. How dare he try to buy me out! It’s not about the money. It was never about the money. My boring but rapidly compounding index funds alone can cover me and my orphan heirs at the local Casa de Los Ninos for perpetuity. Fuck him and his severance.

“You’ll regret this.” Fists balled, I get up and walk out, leaving all three sitting there slack-jawed.

I go to my desk to gather my things, but there’s nothing worth gathering except the lucky bamboo stalk my assistant gifted me one Lunar New Year. Not surprisingly, she too has been let go. This new boys’ club is no place for aspiring young women. I grab it by its fragile blue vase and exit what was once my sanctuary into glaring sunshine.

Now what? I dread going back to my lonely apartment. To my lone chair at my lone table watching some laugh-tracked rerun with my lone microwave dinner. No, I’m not ready to drown in self pity. Not when it’s barely even noon.

I wander past the bus stop, seeing things for the first time. Cars sitting in smoggy traffic. Candy wrappers littering the sidewalks. A hot dog cart inside a lush park I didn’t know existed.

I buy a footlong loaded with extra relish and take it to a wooden bench, hoping the fresh air can suppress the misery I feel inside. Nearby, a shimmering crow caws at me from atop a speckled white birch. I toss crumbs in her direction, but a flock of geese swoop in and swipe them away.

The selfish act on a day like this triggers me, and tears flood my cheeks for us both. But the crow simply retreats, making no move to compete for the bread. She waits, watching me from her branch until I break off a chunk of hot dog and offer it to her from my hand. She takes it with a cock of her head and a stroke of her feathers, her obsidian eyes fast on mine as if to tell me a secret.

Let them act the geese, clambering for crumbs. Be the black crow, and feast atop the birch.

Her beady gaze sparks a desire for revenge that slowly seeps my core. Not the malicious kind where I hijack the firm’s system and turn my application onto itself, letting it eat away its efficiency like Pac-Man on dots. That isn’t me. I’m not that obvious.

Instead, I envision myself playing Andy Dufresne, crawling through five football fields of shit and coming out clean on the other side. That’s the kind of revenge I want.

It takes me two solid years, but I design a new software suite more efficient than the last. I know my old programming code like the back of my hand—all its wonders and all its flaws. I use that to my advantage. I heed client reviews and develop features far beyond lover boy’s non-existent imagination.

In short, I best my own work, then turn around and sell it anonymously to his competitor for half its worth. It’s petty, but the price cut means it only takes three quarters for his clients to flip allegiance. Meanwhile, I make weekly visits to the park, feeding the crow and collecting the shiny trinkets she brings me.

As I watch the startup I helped build crumble, sorrow flickers for the years of sweat and tears I’ve wasted. But my sadness is fleeting. My heart knows no sympathy for self-serving geese.

I hope you enjoyed the evolution of The Crow on a Birch! If you happened to take away anything from reading about my revision process, I hope it’s the importance of having a great supportive group of CPs you can trust in your corner. My critique partners have been godsends and incredibly instrumental to my writing growth. 

All my best and thank you so much for following along with me on this awesome journey! Until next time  â¤ï¸

Don't miss out on other WIM writers' final drafts!

Head on over to the Writer In Motion official blog and forum for more amazing shorts, all born from the same prompt!

WIM R2 Week 3: The CP-Edited Draft

It’s Week 3, friends! This week, my draft got a special treatment from my super awesome critique partner Ariana Townsend! Her critique was full of kind encouragement and great nuggets of grammatical wisdom, which helped rein in my bad habit of writing in fragments and repetition. 

Below are screenshots of Ariana’s comments and suggestions. Based on her feedback, I tightened the draft with some quick revisions, which surprisingly resulted in a net increase of only 6 words!

And here it is, my first round of CP edits! Changes made are in bold.

The Crow on a Birch

Adult Contemporary – 830 Words

I sit stiff in the chair, wrapped in humiliation. Across the table, the trio wearing varying shades of managerial blue peer at me with pity in their eyes.

The middle one clears his throat. “I’m afraid the merger re-org has eliminated your position. We’re sorry, but we have to let you go.” The others nod solemnly, their lips turned down in false grief.

You bastard! I want to shriek into his lying, scheming face. For all the years I’ve loved him, I truly hate him now. My jaw aches from the clench of my teeth, but I have only my own stupidity to blame. 

Shame on me for believing I could ever be more than a pawn to him. He’d seduced me, lured from me my greatest work, then claimed it for his own before dusting me aside like a pesky cobweb. He thinks my meekness means I’d never fight back, yet he can’t risk keeping me around. Not on the off chance I might expose his incompetence to his new overlords.

Fury consumes me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of losing my cool. I refuse to let him see how his betrayal has broken me, how he’s crushed my heart and my self-worth with his hateful silver tongue. 

I glare at him, watching him squirm, waiting for him to justify what he’s done. His theft I can stomach. Chalk it up to a lesson learned for my naive trust. But to take away my job, the one thing I live for? How could he?

For one miniscule second, his features soften. “You’ll be pleased with the severance package. It’s enough to set you up for early retirement.”

My rage threatens to shred my last ounce of dignity. How dare he try to buy me out! It’s not about the money. It was never about the money. My boring but rapidly compounding index funds alone can cover me and my orphan heirs at the local Casa de Los Ninos for perpetuity. So fuck him and his severance. 

“You’ll regret this.” Fists balled, I get up and walk out, leaving all three sitting there slack-jawed.

I go to my desk to gather my things, but there’s nothing there worth gathering except for the lucky bamboo stalk I received from my assistant one Lunar New Year. She too has been let go. I grab it by its fragile blue vase and exit what was once my sanctuary into glaring sunshine.

Now what? I dread going back to my lonely apartment. To my lone chair at my lone table watching some laugh-tracked re-run with my lone microwave dinner. No, I’m not ready for that. Not when it’s barely even noon.

I stroll past the bus stop, wandering aimlessly, seeing things for the first time. Cars sitting in smoggy traffic. Candy wrappers littering the sidewalks. A hotdog cart inside a lush park I didn’t know existed.

I buy a footlong loaded with extra relish and take it to a wooden bench. Nearby, a shimmering crow caws at me from atop a speckled white birch. I toss a few crumbs in her direction, but a flock of geese quickly swoop in and swipe them away.

Tears flood my cheeks for us both. But the crow simply retreats, making no move to compete for the bread. She waits patiently, watching me until I break off a chunk of hotdog and offer it to her from my hand. She rewards me with a cock of her head and a stroke of her silken feathers, the obsidian beads of her eyes fast on mine as if to tell me a secret.

Let them act the geese, clambering for crumbs. Be the black crow, and feast atop the birch.

I decide I want revenge. Not the malicious kind where I hijack the firm’s system and turn my code onto itself, letting it eat away its efficiency like Pac-Man on dots. That isn’t me. I’m not that obvious.

Instead, I envision myself playing Andy Dufresne, crawling through five football fields of shit and coming out clean on the other side. That’s the kind of revenge I want.

It takes me two solid years, but I design a new software suite even more efficient than the last. I know my old code like the back of my hand—all its wonders and all its flaws. I use that to my advantage. I heed client reviews and develop features lover boy could never imagine with his non-existent creativity.

In short, I best my own work, then turn around and sell it anonymously to his competitor for half its worth. Yes, I’m petty like that.

It only takes three quarters for his clients to flip allegiance. Meanwhile, I make weekly visits to the park, feeding the crow and collecting the shiny trinkets she brings me. All while watching the startup I helped build crumble.

But my sadness is fleeting. My heart knows no sympathy for self-serving geese.

As you can see, things pretty much stayed the same content-wise, but thanks to Ariana, this version definitely feels cleaner and nippier. It’s been a blast working with her, and I’m so grateful for her help in getting my story one step closer to final.

And that’s it for my CP-edited third draft! I’ll be sending this version to my next round of critique partners, Rebecca and Kristen, and processing their feedback in next week’s post. Thanks for tuning in and following along!  â¤ï¸

Curious to see how others handled
CP feedback?

Head on over to the Writer In Motion official blog and forum to learn about the different ways authors process and apply each other’s critiques!

WIM R2 Week 2: The Self-Edited Draft

Image of lady dressed in black holding herself by a white pole

Hello again! Last week, I posted my first draft, which lacked something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—something important. It took me a couple of days, but I think I’ve finally figured out what was bothering me so much.

My main character felt flat.

Even after getting laid off, she’s financially set, so it doesn’t exactly kill her, and she ends up with a petty revenge. Not very exciting, right? To draw out more emotion, I need to stomp on her while she’s down, rip up her pride, take away from her the one thing she loves. Then when she finally gets her vengeance, it’ll be all the sweeter.

So I gave her an affair backstory to help amp up the tension. After going through and editing the story twice with that idea in mind, I came out with a bloody draft. Here’s a glimpse of the slaughter:

As you can see, I went no mercy on this mess! It’s always eye opening to me the amount of tweaking and polishing  necessary, just to work in some characterization.

Also, I’m still on the fence about the first-person present tense thing. I’m not crazy about it, but when I tried to rewrite the piece in first-person third, that didn’t spark magic either. So I reverted back and decided I’m okay with it for now.

Ready to see how it all turned out? Here it is, my self-edited draft!

The Crow on a Birch

Adult Contemporary – 824 Words

I sit stiff in the chair, humiliated by the pity from the trio wearing varying shades of managerial blue across the table.

The middle one clears his throat. “I’m afraid the merger re-org has eliminated your position. We’re sorry, but we have to let you go.” The others nod solemnly, their lips turned down in false grief.

You bastard! I want to shriek into his lying, scheming face. For all the years I’ve loved him, I truly hate him now. My jaws ache from the clench of my teeth, but I have only my own stupidity to blame. 

Shame on me for believing I could ever be more than a pawn to him. He’d seduced me, lured from me my greatest work. Then claimed it for his own before dusting me aside like a pesky cobweb. He thinks my meekness means I’d never fight back, but yet he can’t risk keeping me around. Not on the off chance I might expose his incompetence to his new overlords.

Fury consumes me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of losing my cool. I refuse to let him see how his betrayal has broken me, how he’s crushed my heart and my self-worth with his hateful silver tongue. 

I stare hard into his eyes, watching him squirm, waiting for him to justify what he’s done. His theft I can stomach. Chalk it up to a lesson learned for my naive trust. But to take away my job, the one thing I live for? How could he?

For one miniscule second, his features soften. “You’ll be pleased with the severance package. It’s enough to set you up for early retirement.”

My rage threatens to shred my last ounce of dignity. How dare he try to buy me out! It’s not about the money. It was never about the money. My boring but rapidly compounding index funds alone can cover me and my orphan heirs at the local Casas de Los Ninos for perpetuity. So fuck him and his severance. 

“You’ll regret this,” I say. I get up and walk out, knees wobbly, leaving all three sitting there slack-jawed.

I go to my desk to gather my things, but there’s nothing there worth gathering. Except for the miniature bamboo stalk I received from my assistant one Lunar New Year. She too had been let go. I grab it by its China blue vase and exit the drab brown building into the glaring sunlight.

Now what? I dread going back to my lonely apartment. To my lone chair at my lone table watching some laugh-tracked re-run with my lone microwave dinner. No, I’m not ready for that. Not when it’s barely even noon.

I stroll past the bus stop, wandering aimlessly, seeing things for the first time. Cars sitting in smoggy traffic. Candy wrappers littering the sidewalks. A hotdog cart inside a lush park I didn’t know existed.

I buy one loaded with extra relish and take it to a wooden bench. Nearby, a shimmering crow caws at me from atop a speckled white birch. I toss a few crumbs in her direction, but a flock of geese quickly swoop in and swipe them away.

Tears flood my cheeks for us both. But the crow simply retreats, making no move to compete for the bread. She waits patiently, watching me until I break off a chunk of hotdog and offer it to her from my hand. She rewards me with a cock of her head and a stroke of her silken feathers, the obsidian beads of her eyes fast on mine as if to tell me a secret.

Let them act the geese, clambering for crumbs. Be the black crow, and feast atop the birch.

I decide I want revenge. Not the malicious kind where I hijack the firm’s system and turn my code onto itself, letting it eat away its efficiency like Pac-Man on dots. That isn’t me. I’m not that obvious.

Instead, I envision myself playing Andy Dufresne, crawling through five football fields of shit and coming out clean on the other side. That’s the kind of revenge I want.

It takes me two solid years, but I design a new software suite even more efficient than the last. I know my old code like the back of my hand—all its wonders and all its flaws. I use that to my advantage. I heed client reviews and develop features lover boy could never imagine with his non-existent creativity.

In short, I best my own work, only to turn around and sell it anonymously to his competitor for half its worth. Yes, I’m petty like that.

It only takes three quarters for his clients to flip allegiance. Meanwhile, I make weekly visits to the park, feeding the crow and collecting the shiny trinkets she brings me. All while watching the startup I helped build crumble.

But my sadness is fleeting. My heart knows no sympathy for self-serving geese.

Whew! I hope I didn’t make too much of a mess. I’ll be sending this draft off to my first CP, the talented Ariana, and editing it again with her feedback in next week’s post. I can’t wait to hear her thoughts on how to improve the story!

See you then and thanks for reading! ❤️

Wanna see how other writers interpreted the prompt?

Check out the Writer In Motion official blog and the Forum for more creative stories, all born from the same picture prompt!

WIM R2 Week 1: The First Draft

Hi there, and thanks for joining me on my second round of the Writer In Motion (WIM) journey! I can’t wait to learn from everyone, both new and returning, and to dive into all the awesome stories.

If you’re new to WIM, it all starts with a picture prompt from the Writer In Motion website. Each participating writer takes inspiration from the prompt, drafts up a short story, and posts it online, letting the reader in on their thoughts and ideas. In subsequent weeks, the writer takes the story through several rounds of revisions while being completely transparent about their whole process along the way. 

In short, the goal is for writers to learn from each other by sharing our own drafting and revision processes through a series of blog posts on our personal websites. Some of us will also be sharing through the forum, so if you’re making the rounds, don’t forget to check those out here.

Pretty much anything goes! For me, it’s the perfect opportunity to try something new. This time, I really really want to step outside my fantasy comfort zone and write in a different genre. So I’m super excited to find out where the prompt takes me and hope the wise contemporary/drama/mystery/thriller Muse will make an appearance!

The Prompt

Image of lady dressed in black holding herself by a white pole
Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

When I first saw the photo, it became clear the Muse I tried to summon wanted nothing to do with me. I was left completely stumped. Remember how set I was on writing something different? Well, my immediate reaction was “ooh, a gender-bent Maleficent retelling!” Homer Simpson face palm.

But stubborn me leaned back and squinted hard until a black crow on a white birch emerged from the blur. Can you see it?? I had to really strain, but I swear it was there at one point, so I’ll take it! 

I tested the words out loud. The crow on a birch. YES, it has such a nice contemporary ring. Maybe a little literary even. Alright, who am I kidding? I can’t stretch that far, lol. But it’s fine! I have a title! Yay!

Then came the hard part: an actual story to go with it. I won’t lie, I struggled so hard. In fact, I’ve never ever had a title idea come in before a story—that’s how upended I was. After a whole lot of distraction and procrastination, somehow, from somewhere, something that wasn’t fantasy finally came to me. It was so far outside of my norm in terms of genre and style, I’m not sure how I got through the draft without assaulting the delete key, but I managed. I put on my writing pants and just went with it. And it shows.

It’s unpolished, kind of flat, and twitchy-eye inducing with typos, tense shifts, and a terrible attempt at writing in first-person present (which I already want to change). This round’s story was definitely a lot harder to conjure than the last, as far as word flow. I guess that’s what happens when you try to ignore the Muse, hah! I’m still not quite sure how more than 750 words appeared on the page, but I’m happy to have a frame of a story I think I can work with. 

Here it is in all its unglory, my first unedited draft.

The Crow on a Birch

Adult Contemporary – 758 words

I sit stiff in my chair, appraising the trio of good ole boys wearing varying shades of managerial blue button-downs.

“You’ve been such a great asset to this company,” my new boss says, clearing his throat. “But with the new merger…words can’t express just how sorry we are.” He steeples his fingers, his prickish face drooping with false grief.

Great asset? I’m more than just an asset. I’m the creator of the same goddamn app that launched this company into the greedy sights of WonderCorps acquisitions team.

Fury washes over me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of losing my cool. I don’t want them to see how much their betrayal hurts me. I stare hard into his eyes, watching him squirm, watching him try to justify docking me after thirty-five years of loyal sweat. I’ve been here from the ground up. But he’s young, and his idea of contribution doesn’t jive with mine.

His eyes brighten with consolation. “You’ll be pleased with the severance package, I’m sure. It’s quite generous. More than enough to set you up for a nice early retirement.”

I blink once. The gall of these people! Trying to buy out my stakes with a mere pittance. It’s not even about the money. It was never about the money. My boring but rapidly compounding index funds alone can cover me and my orphan heirs at the local Casas de Los Ninos for perpetuity at an annual withdrawal rate of 4%. But I digress. I won’t waste another minute with these smucks.

“It’s been real,” I say. Then I get up and walked out of the office, leaving all three sitting there slack-jawed.

I go to my desk to gather my things, but there’s nothing there worth gathering. Except maybe the miniature bamboo stalk I received from my favorite assistant one Lunar New Year. She too had been let go. I grab it by its China blue vase and exited the drab brown building into the sunshine.

What now? I dread going back to my lonely apartment. To my lone chair at my lone table watching some laugh-tracked re-run with my lone microwave dinner. No, I’m not ready for that. Not when it’s barely even noon.

I stroll past the bus stop, wandering aimlessly, seeing things for the first time. Cars sitting in smoggy traffic. Candy wrappers littering the sidewalks. A hotdog cart inside a lush park I didn’t know existed.

I buy one loaded with extra relish and take it to a nearby bench. Nearby, a shimmering crow caws at me from atop a speckled white birch. I toss a few crumbs in its direction, but a flock of geese quickly swoop in and swipe them away.

The crow retreats and cranes her neck at me from her perch. But she makes no move to compete for the bread. She waits patiently, watching me until I break off a chunk of hotdog and offer it to her from my hand. Only then did she alight to flitter at my side.

Revelation strikes me. Let them act the goose, clambering for crumbs. I’d rather be the crow on a birch, feasting in the end.

I decide I want revenge.

No doubt you’re thinking of the malicious kind where I hijack the firm’s system and turn my code onto itself, eating away its efficiency like Pac-Man on dots. But that isn’t me. I’m not that obvious.

Instead, I envision myself playing a female Andy Dufresne, crawling through five football fields full of shit and coming out clean on the other side. That’s the kind of revenge I want.

It takes me two solid years, but I design a new software suite even more efficient than the last. I know my old code like the back of my hand–all its wonders and all its flaws. I use that to my advantage. I heed client reviews and develop features the old app wouldn’t dream of. In short, I best my own work and then sell it anonymously to WonderCorp’s competitor for half its worth. Yes, I know. I’m petty like that.

It only takes three quarters for WonderCorp’s clients to flip allegiance. Meanwhile, I make weekly visits to the park, feeding the crow and collecting the shiny trinkets she brings me. All while watching the empire I helped build crumble.

But my sadness is fleeting. It’s hard to find sympathy for chauvinist geese. They should know better than to take crumbs meant for the crow. You never know what kind of dynamite hides beneath its wing.

And there it is. A non-fantasy adult contemporary. Stay tuned next week for a good laugh as I attempt to clean this up and make it a bit more…I don’t know…exciting? I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s definitely missing something. Maybe after a few more rounds of distractions, something besides the delete button will scream at me.

Until then and as always, thanks for reading! ❤️

WIM Week 7: The Reflection Post

Now that our final drafts are done, it’s time to wrap up Writer-in-Motion with a final reflection post! This project has just been so AMAZING – beyond everything I had hoped for.

When Jeni, KJ, and JM first proposed the idea, I knew it’d be a great way to help me get over my fear of sharing my writing with others. Writers inject pieces of themselves into their work, and exposing that vulnerability was a struggle for me. To put my raw process out there for the rest of the world to judge was almost as scary as giving a speech in a bikini to a crowd of Asian grandmas! But I’ve learned in life that’s the best way to handle fear. You just gotta fist it up and stare it in the face. So I committed before I could change my mind, and here I am, alive on the other side, feeling extremely grateful.

It was hard at first, no surprise. After flying through that first draft, my fingers itched with anxiety to revise. Could I really stand to throw something so messy and unpolished up in public?? I mean, I can’t even send a casual email without editing it twice, for crying out loud. This was madness! But then I reminded myself that was exactly the whole point. To show readers my entire writing process in all its good, bad, and ugly.

The next hurdle was to click that PUBLISH button, which I totally failed at. So I put matters into WordPress’s hands and scheduled the post to go live first thing the morning of. That way, I couldn’t chicken out. And you know what? It worked!!

After that draft went up and there was no turning back, things got easier—most definitely with the help and incredible outpouring of support from this wonderful group of writers! I soon found myself less concerned with the public-ness of it all and more focused on the process of improving the story itself. I loved getting feedback and insights to help better my story. I loved learning from everyone else’s processes and then watching their stories evolve from good to fan-frickin-tastic! Soon, I was clicking that PUBLISH button, no problem. This part I had expected. This part I had anticipated to be the prize for participation.

But WiM turned out to be much more than that. This project went beyond the processes, the stories, the revisions. It went beyond overcoming fears.  It became a writing haven for me, where I found my tribe of astounding talents who would cycle through at all hours of the day to offer friendship, advice, support, encouragement, laughter, and taco gifs. By far, this connection has been the most valuable part – the MVP – of my WiM journey, hands down! This part I hadn’t anticipated. This part was a blessing.

And on that note, I’d like to shout out huge THANK YOU’s to the WiM Crew:

  • To our outstanding editors Jeni, Carly, Maria, and Justine for their undying faith in us writers, and for generously donating their time and expertise! Y’all are the best!
  • To my critique partners Paulette and HM – you guys helped me so much and I’ll forever be grateful! Love you!!!
  • To the great KJ—thanks for adminning, tech supporting, Twitter-threading, mother-henning, occasionally instigating, and always overachieving! Seriously, KJ is Ms. Do-It-All, and we all HEART the halo out of her!
  • To my fellow WiM writers—your talents and creativity blow me the heck away, and I am so humbled and honored to have met all of you!
  • And finally, to you, the reader and cheerleader who’ve been with all of us throughout this enlightening journey! I hope you’ve found something in WiM to love as well.

Writer-in-Motion was a genius concept, and I hope with all my heart there will be more to come—for those with a writerly fear to overcome, for those seeking encouragement and feedback to improve their skills, for those willing to put yourself out there to be a part of something amazing. There’s nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Cheers and as always, thanks for reading!❤️


Check out Jeni’s Blog for the entire WiM Roundup!


WIM Week 6: The Final Draft

This is it, guys – the final draft! I can’t believe we’re here at Week 6 already. Last week, I posted Draft 3, edited with the help of my amazing Critique Partners. I was pretty satisfied with it and couldn’t think of any other way to improve it, so that meant it was ripe and ready for the editor treatment with the magical Jeni Chappelle!

True to her nature, Jeni took one look and knew exactly what Joan needed. This is why having pro editor eyes on your work is such a huge boost to the revision process. They’re able to pick out things you and even your CPs may have overlooked, suggest ways to tighten your story, and get your gears cranking again with new ideas.

Lucky to have benefited from Jeni’s expertise, I’m excited to share with you exactly how editor feedback evolved my story! Let’s take a look at what she had to say about my CP Edit.

The Editor Feedback

Processing the Feedback

So to sum things up, Jeni liked the story overall but highlighted two main issues:

  1. Inconsistent narrative voice. “Sometimes it has a classic, timeless feel, and other times it feels like a quirky modern teenager.”
  2. Flippant phrases. Word choices like “screaming of tetanus”, “cheap IKEA lamp”, “roasting”, and “Old Tetanus” breach the tone of the story.

Thankfully nothing too catastrophic, but wouldn’t you know it, she was spot on! These issues were clearly related and could even be approached as one.

Tackling the Feedback

Although it was fun while it lasted, I had to admit the quirky humor just didn’t belong here. Not with the path I planned to take. So to address her comments, here’s what I did:

  1. Inconsistent narrative voice

There were a couple of ways to fix this problem. I could either scrub the story to inject a more consistently modern or snarky tone (at least until her flashback montage moment), or to take “modern” back a few notches so the “classical” voice doesn’t feel out of place.

Since I preferred the classical tone for this piece and felt it would work for an earlier time period than the present, I went with the latter. To pull it off, I made it clear Joan would be going back to 1429 – the year she asked the Dauphin for his army. Next, I hinted that 1429 was 400 years in the past, putting our modern-day Joan in the 1830’s.  Finally, I replaced the modern-day references with more appropriate 19th century ones, which leads us to…

  1. Flippant phrases

As much as it pained me to get rid of Old Tetanus and Joan’s cheap IKEA lamp, I had to do it! I had to kill my darlings! Waahhhh! But as my CP Paulette said, “Old Tetanus had a good run.” And so I tried to make up for it with…you’ll see.

  1. Miscellaneous edits

Lastly, I shuffled things around and changed some words, because I just couldn’t make it through an edit round without doing stuff like that. Also, after dwelling on it a little, I decided to change “Master” back to her parents. Having to give up family, along with a decent life, drove in just how difficult it must’ve been for Joan to leave everything behind for the sake of her faith. It underscored the sacrifices she made in the name of God, and who was I to take any of that away from her? Joan’s undying faith, selflessness, and badass courage were what earned her sainthood after all.

And there we have it, folks! After applying those final edits, Joan’s ready for her Independence Day parade. Here she is for one last time at 1016 words.

The Final Editor Draft

          He came to me on a midnight clear. An old man in a broken boat, rusted and bitten by the sea. There was something odd about him—the way he seemed to light up from within, the way he floated across the splintered hull. Otherworldly. As if he’d come from another time and place. His crimson cloak fluttered in the salty breeze as he approached, silent like the moon, bare feet soft on the sand.

          “Bonjour,” he said with perfect inflection.

          I scanned the New England shores for late-night stragglers, but all was still as stones. Never was a thing there when you needed it most. With quickening pulse, I raised my oil lamp up at him. It was midnight on a deserted beach, and I had nothing but a Jane Austen novel for defense. Father and Mum were snug in their Holiday Lettings bed, a sand dune away, too far to hear me scream. My fingers knew but one thing to do. They flew to clutch the crucifix at my throat, reaching for the Lord to keep me aground.

          Fear besieges not the faithful, for through Him I am protected.

          I replied a hasty “bonjour”, silently praying he wouldn’t carry on. French was a rarity found only in Father’s library, and a few more phrases would’ve exhausted my repertoire. He didn’t, thank God. Instead, he stood staring at me with bottomless eyes, raising the hairs on my skin. I didn’t know this man. Yet somehow, I recognized him.

          “You must go back, Joan,” he said, his deep voice resonant with the waves.

          I blinked at his peculiar accent, his familiar tone of address. “How’d you know my name?”

          His smile pierced the dark. “Ah, mon coeur, you have always been Joan.”

          Snapping the book shut, I stumbled to my feet, bare toes gripping the cool sand grains. I lifted my face to the lamp’s flickering light and frowned. “Go back where?”

          “Là où tout a commencé,” he said. “To 1429, where it all begins.”

          My heart lurched as he reached a hand inside his cloak. He drew out a glowing sword, the silver of its blade so fluid, it lit up the night like twelve moons. Powerful grey wings burst forth from beneath heavy folds as he pointed the sword’s tip at me, crumpling me down to my knees.

          And in that instant, I was bestowed with knowledge. Divine remembrance.

          Centuries reeled before my eyes like credits at a movie’s end. All the lives of my past. A thousand strings of cause and effect. And in every one, I was Joan. Jehanne d’Arc. A poor farmer’s daughter called to march an army to victory. An innocent damned to rot in cells until the end of my days.

          But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. For if it was, the angel called Michael wouldn’t be here, summoning me to launch yet another thread of life from four hundred years in the past.

          “Once more, you shall convince the Dauphin of France to grant you his army,” Michael said. “You shall liberate the city of Orlèans, chase the English from the Loire valley, and deliver Reims so that Charles may be crowned king.” He knelt in front of me and seized my shoulder. “But this time, when they capture you at Compiègne, you must not recant. You must burn in martyrdom and light France’s flames into victory. For without France, the new nation cannot rise.”

          I sank to the sand beneath the toll of his proclamation.

          Yet how many more times must I relive death, my Lord? Yet how many more times must I wield the banner of war, watch the massacre of innocents, condone the tortures of men?

          Tremors rippled down my spine. “And by what sin must I burn?”

          “Man will find reason to suit their agenda,” Michael said gently. “When they cannot charge you for heresy, so shall they settle for the donning of men’s clothes.”

          My mind spun at the injustice. To die as a woman shamed for improper dress—that was to be my fate! 

          Michael released me and stood to sheath his sword, fixing me with pity in his onyx gaze.

          “One day, your sacrifice shall be a copper torch at the new nation’s golden shores,” he soothed. “A beacon to steer the lost and the homeless, igniting hope in the wretched poor who yearn to breathe free.”

          But his words were an enigma, filling my heart with the bitterness of doubt. How many strings of cause would it take to conjure such a place on this suffering earth? For even I, though blessed at birth, was far from free.

          “Will this time even matter?” I dared to whisper. “Or will it all be in vain, like the thousand times before?”

          “God does nothing in vain, dear Joan. Lose not your faith.”

          Shame washed over me like the sea as I clenched the book in my fist and swallowed doubt down my throat. Who was I to question His design? The answers were not for me to know. I was but the hand to do God’s will. I released my breath until the last drop depleted from my lungs. And unto Him, I lifted my soul.

          “Then let His will be mine.”

          The angel folded his wings and vanished into heaven’s stars, leaving me alone with the boat that would take me back through time to the banks of the River Vienne. I stared at the black waters crashing against its weathered hull. The perfect vessel upon which to ruminate my impending demise at the stake. The battered ark to which my name would forever be tied.

          I laid my book upon the sand and set my lamp atop its cover. I could not take these items where I was going. I could take nothing but my faith and conviction. But perhaps one day, I too could escape to those golden shores. To live free at last beyond nineteen.

          If God so wills it.

          Until then, I shan’t be afraid. I am Jehanne d’Arc. I was born to do this.

Thank you for following along with me on this prompt-to-polished journey! I hope you enjoyed Joan‘s evolution as much as I did, and maybe even took a little something away from peeking into my process as well. As always, thanks for reading and stay tuned as I wrap up this Writer-in-Motion project with some final thoughts next week! ❤️