Most Recent Edit Completed

As you can see from the previous posting, the "final edit" was completed and shipped off on September 19th. When it arrived, I was elated; but by the time I read to approximately page ten, I was deflated. This seems to happen frequently. I re-write and edit and proof, then rewrite and edit and proof; then ship it off only to find, when it comes in, that there are errors everywhere. My first book, Sofie, the Queen of Oakland, went through approximately 17 revisions at the publisher. The final - final is simply my last ditch effort. There are still errors and things that could/should be corrected, modified, modulated, smoothed over, left out. Too fucking bad.

So I offer the following with trepidation, here and now on this 28th day of October, 2007: The hopefully last and final edit of The Marker was completed today. and shipped off to the publisher. This editing is a joy for some people, but it is a long and harrowing ordeal for others. I fall into the latter category.

Still, I think this novel shows considerable improvement in my writing skills. There are some things about it that bother me; but overall, it's pretty good. I should have probably had the knife experience Viet Nam. It would have been interesting to do the research and the writing (but not the editing), but I'm too far along with the psychology involved in writing a book like this.

Here's an excerpt:

On the horizon, flaming reds, golds, and orange light streaked through a cluster of low clouds backlighting them with glistening golden threads. While red-winged blackbirds chirped in the cattails near the river, the blazing colors from the horizon reflected off Manchester’s head causing it to look as though it contained a raging fire.

“Please, Mr. Wheatley, I’m sorry for the transgressions. Please, spare me boy, I have a wife and children back at the mansion. What will they do without me?”

Wheatley pulled harder on the rope. “Tell Him, Asshole.” Wheatley pointed his revolver to the sky. “Tell the Lord about your sins,” Wheatley spat the words. “I already know what they are.”

He begged for mercy, and between sobs said the words Wheatley wanted to hear, “Lord, Oh God, please forgive me for the sins I committed with the children.”

“Tell Him all of it.”

“For mistreating them, eating in front of them when they were hungry, for beating them when they made me mad.” The sorrowful hulk of the spent and bloodied man, sitting in a saddle with a rope about his neck, naked with dried blood about his face and shoulders, looked toward heaven and said, “Please God, have mercy.”

“Tell it all,” screamed Wheatley, cinching the rope tighter around Manchester’s neck, and tying it around the tree’s trunk. “I want to hear all of it, you sad bastard. Tell it or I’ll shoot you in the fuckin’ head right now!” he yelled, his revolver aimed at Manchester’s head.

“Last chance.” Wheatley cocked the revolver.

“For the times I had . . . intercourse . . . with the children.”

“Name one, you son-of-a-bitch! Name one!”

He turned his head slowly and looked his tormentor in the face. “You, you little bastard, you, Charles Wheatley.”