Don't edit until the story is done.
That was Betsy's advice: write first, edit after.
I don't actually work that way - I edit as I work. But that's just my process, and it's why I find everyone else's fascinating.
Mal ,'Our Mrs. Reynolds'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Don't edit until the story is done.
That was Betsy's advice: write first, edit after.
I don't actually work that way - I edit as I work. But that's just my process, and it's why I find everyone else's fascinating.
I wonder if "it grieves me" is a Southern thing.
A friend of mine has been writing a story for years. She edits and edits and edits. I suspect she is still on chapter one.
I also edit as I go, but it helps get me back into the story the next day. I read previous day's work, edit and polish, and then start the new stuff. Works for me.
I've heard "it grieves me", connie.
I've heard it "it grieves me" all my life. What I've never heard before is "I grieve you."
So, someone is dying, I'm standing over their bed. I might say "I will mourn you". It wouldn't occur to me to say "I will grieve you."
I don't know the real grammatical terms, but I don't think I've hard forms other than "X grieves me" or "he grieves for". Active form? Passive, because something else receives the action? Present tense? Third-person as the subject of the verb? I can put together a kick-ass sentence, but I wouldn't be able to describe it technically under threat of torture.
I've heard "it grieves me", connie.
It's in the Giles/Tara duet from OMWF.
It's in the Giles/Tara duet from OMWF.
Oh, thank god! It was going to haunt me all day and I'd end up scanning every song sung by a woman in my play list.
It's actually "It'll grieve me / cause I love you so...."
Death is His Gift
The lab is cool and smells of antiseptic. We file in one by one, like altar boys being herded into line for a procession, scuffing our feet along the worn linoleum tile. A silver colored container the size of a coffin sits there with its lid off.
He stares up at us, the lack of eyelids lending him a surprised air. We stand there, momentarily, in apparent supplication and silently beg his forgiveness for treating him like a piece of meat behind the butcher’s counter. Then, we touch him, carefully, reverently, as this gift deserves while we learn from him.