Elena
Below is a piece from an unfinished story. It was meant to open the chapter.
DRAFT 1 - Straight writing. Not stopping for grammar checks or rhythm.
ELENA
What have I done to be so unloved? Do I deserve to feel so lonely? My heart aches with such indescribable pain. I gaze at my reflection and wonder if my beauty is to blame. Has it faded? I pull my eyebrows back and suck in my cheek bones. Am I not that same attractive woman he married all those years ago? I breathe and pull my hair up off my back. Is my hair not the length he finds attractive? Does he not find pleasure grabbing it while we make love? Am I just simply overused? I drop my hair and I smash my perfume bottle at the mirror. It crashes all over my vanity. Fuck. The scents of vanilla mixed with floral notes overpower my anger bringing me a sense of calm. It is classy and sophisticated. But maybe he wants young and daring. And their goes my anger again. But I am young! I am only twenty-nine. Christ! Have I turned into one of those bitter old hags that sits up waiting for her husband to return home only to find lipstick on his collar? I think not! I am disgusted with who I have become. This is his fault. I am the same. He did this to me. I am still beautiful. Yet he chooses to ignore me. To abandon me. But why! I have done nothing. I love him. Why won’t he love me anymore?
DRAFT 2 — Second pass / Cut repetition
ELENA
What have I done to be so unloved? I gaze at my reflection and wonder if my beauty is to blame. Has it faded? I pull my eyebrows back, suck in my cheekbones. Am I not the same woman he married? I lift my hair off my back. Is it not the length he likes anymore? Does he not find pleasure grabbing it while we make love? Am I simply overused? I drop my hair and smash my perfume bottle against the mirror. It shatters across the vanity. Fuck. Vanilla and floral notes cut through my anger, bringing a strange calm. Classy. Sophisticated. But maybe he wants young and daring! And there goes my anger again — I am young. Twenty-nine, for Christ's sake. Have I become one of those bitter women who wait up for a husband, only to find lipstick on his collar? I don’t think so. I am disgusted with who I've become. This is his fault. I am still the same. Still beautiful. Yet he ignores me. Abandons me. Why? I've done nothing but love him. Why won't he love me back?
THE PROCESS:
The first draft is all instinct, in the scene and with my writing. I was imagining myself in front of a mirror, spiraling in my thoughts, like Elena spiraling in real time. Every question stacked on the last. For me, that’s useful for getting the emotional truth down, but on the page it reads like she's arguing with herself in circles. Which she is, yes, but the reader doesn't really need every lap. So the edit cuts the throat-clearing lines — "Do I deserve to feel so lonely," "My heart aches with such indescribable pain" — because they tell the reader what the rest of the paragraph is already showing.
I also trimmed "attractive," "old," and a few other adjectives doing work the verbs already handle: "sucking in cheekbones" doesn't need "attractive woman" propping it up.
The one line I almost cut but kept: "This is his fault. I am still the same." That contradiction, blaming him in one breath, insisting nothing's changed in the next, is the whole character. The edit’s purpose wasn’t to smooth Elena out. I needed to find out which cracks actually mattered and leaving them exposed.
