| Ever Google "Korean Massage"? Trust me, enjoy these flowers instead. |
Last week, my friends told me about the Korean massage.
"They scrub your skin and pull out all this guk you never knew was there. Then they show it to you and you're like, that all lives on me? Gross."
How many of us have had Korean massages? I haven't. Yet we all live in our skin and go about our business. But I suspect if we were to have one, if we were to see the pile of guk they scraped off us, we'd be in for life. Can you ever go back to secretly grimy skin once you know better?
Similarly, if you were to read my MS right now (that's industry talk for manuscript), you'd probably be fine with it. But I know better. I've seen what it is to hack and scrape and sandpaper a piece of writing on other occasions- readings, submissions to writing conferences, etc. And once you've seen how much guk can live happily amid your words, how smooth your writing becomes once you clean it up, you can't go back.
Here's a teeny example:
BEFORE:
The main hallway
was lined with rooms whose doors were flung open this morning. Sunlight poured
into large windows onto ayahs moving quietly about, sweeping and mopping
floors, dusting heavy wood furniture, polishing objets d’art of gold, silver,
marble, bronze. Each room was a variation on the same theme: excessive
opulence. It seemed like the Karachi Mistrys had the same home décor principles
as their Vancouver counterpart: to shout from the top tier of their customized
crystal chandeliers, “We have money.” Over the years, Mum’s over-the-top taste
had included a front yard fountain that at dusk lit up its eight-foot spray in
deep fuchsia and violet hues, imposing iron gates fitted with gold-gilded ‘M’s,
and custom-ordered Italian marble in the foyer. In high school, when my
friends’ parents dropped me off, I pretended I lived in the house at the other
end of the road, a plain white split level with nothing but a maple tree in the
front yard. I’d hover there till they turned the corner before walking to my
temple of shame.
AFTER:
The main hallway
was lined with rooms whose doors were flung open this morning. Sunlight poured
into tall windows onto ayahs quietly sweeping, mopping, dusting, polishing
objets d’art of silver and gold, marble, bronze. Each room was a variation on the
same theme: excess. It seemed like the Karachi Mistrys had the same home décor
principles as their Vancouver counterpart: to shout from the top tier of their
customized crystal chandeliers, “Look, we’re rich.” In high school, when my
friends’ parents dropped me off, I’d guide them to the house at the other end
of the road, a plain white split level with nothing but a maple tree in the
front yard. I’d hover outside till they left before walking to my temple of
shame with its filigreed-till-your-eyes-hurt iron gates with a gold ‘M’ in the
center, a fountain that at dusk lit up its eight-foot spray in deep fuchsia and
violet, the cherubs that watched you with vacant eyes while you prayed someone
would answer the door soon.
It's like those "spot ten differences" games, right? Most people will never care but to me, this polishing makes all the difference. It's what thrilled me as a bright-eyed English major, and it thrills me today as a haggard old writer.
In the above excerpts, I've only cut five words. This is how it goes- I cut 20 words here, 50 there, it feels futile. But today, I checked the whole MS. I've cut 4000 words in the first six chapters. And the reason this is so important is that the key to good writing is counter-intuitive: less is more.
A simple rule, but one that is incredibly difficult to accomplish. It can only be done by rolling up your sleeves, taking a wire brush and scrubbing away till you're out of breath, till your body (or body of work) is gleaming and free of guk.
A simple rule, but one that is incredibly difficult to accomplish. It can only be done by rolling up your sleeves, taking a wire brush and scrubbing away till you're out of breath, till your body (or body of work) is gleaming and free of guk.
