Boiling a Delusion

As Word Soup celebrates its 5000th unique hit, most of which came since February, we're going to soldier on doing what we're doing. Thanks so much for the interest you've shown, everyone!

Larry Crossett is yet another friend from the ABNA forums, and he's brought us a sample from his thriller, NIGHTMARE DELUSION. Let's see what we can do with it!

The Original:

Dawn Taylor pushed a wheeled aluminum ice cart along the brightly lit west corridor of Lincoln's Manor Convalescent Center.  At each numbered door along the way she knocked perfunctorily, then stepped in and gathered two plastic ice-water pitchers, one off each of the hospital-style bedside tables.  She wore white slacks and a pale blue top, her long dark hair tied back with a rubber band, but for a few errant strands.

Usually the pitchers were still full from yesterday.  Regardless, she would empty them into the bathroom sink and bring them out to scoop in fresh ice before refilling them with water.

This was the easiest chore of her day, but Dawn didn't like it.  Nearly every room she entered had a resident or two in need of something: turning over in bed, help from wheelchair to toilet, a tissue they couldn't reach….  Seldom was anyone crying out for fresh ice in his or her water pitcher.  But while she wore these little vinyl gloves, Public Health said she couldn't do anything but pass the ice.  She needed to stay sanitary.

She was searching room 63 for Montgomery Josephson's missing water pitcher lid, the resident slumped over asleep in his wheelchair, when she heard the page: "Dawn, come to the desk, please."

The nursing home's intercom system was used freely.  That particular page came a dozen times a day, when the nurse wanted her to take a temperature or help transfer a resident.  During the ice pass, though, they would call another CNA for such chores.  Dawn was apprehensive as she walked the fifty feet to the nurses' station.

"Your mother, Dawn," one of the nurses told her.  "Line two."

Personal calls to employees were frowned upon, but when they came in they were allowed.  Dawn's mother did not hesitate to call if she needed something from the grocery store, or wanted to vent about an undeserved charge on a medical bill.  Dawn could not discourage her.

Today's call, however, was neither of those.  She knew that before she picked up the receiver.

"Dawn, we did it," her mother announced.  "Eric is coming home!"

Shit.  "That's great, Mom."

"It was the way he handled himself at the hearing.  He spoke right up, looking those people in the eye."

"I know, you told me about it."

"He's coming home next Wednesday, Dawn.  He just called."

"Okay, that's fine.  I—"

"You'll have to go get him.  One o'clock, they said."

"All right, Mom.  I know.  I'll be there."

"This is so wonderful.  I've prayed for this."

"Yeah, Ma, it is.  I'm happy for you.  I've got to go.  I've got someone on the pot."

The Condensation:

Dawn Taylor pushed a wheeled aluminum ice cart along the brightly lit west corridor of Lincoln's Manor Convalescent Center.  At each numbered door along the way she knocked perfunctorily, then stepped in and gathered two plastic ice-water pitchers, one off each of the hospital-style bedside tables.  She wore white slacks and a pale blue top, her long dark hair tied back with a rubber band, but for a few errant strands.

Carts have wheels, but instead of changing "a" to "an" we can make it more familiar by using "the." Because she's stopping at "each" door, we don't need "along the way."

"Perfunctorily" isn't needed if we make the action perfunctory, and we can do so by boiling out "then".

The pitchers themselves are not "plastic ice-water," and that they contain (or will contain) ice water is obvious from the rest of the piece, so let's boil out "ice-water." Meantime, we can combine "two" with "each" to get "both." "Of the" can go without loss of content.

I don't know why, but I've never been a big fan of "wore" as a verb. It's not terribly descriptive, and it seems to me that we can get more content-per-word when we think of clever ways to eliminate it. As an example here (which is too forward because I haven't discussed it with the author, but I'm going to do it anyway because this is a blog post and not a proper edit), we could use the word to convey a variety of truths about her work environment as it pertains to her wardrobe: Does it make her invisible? Does it make her conspicuous? I'm going to go with "invisible," and combine this sentence with the last one to help it flow a little better.

Long hair that has been tied back is a pony tail.

Finally, I'm going to rearrange the order a little to facilitate a smoother transition into the next paragraph.

Dawn Taylor pushed the aluminum ice cart along the brightly lit west corridor of Lincoln's Manor Convalescent Center, a few errant strands writhing free from the rubber band holding her dark pony tail. Invisible in white slacks and a pale blue top, at each numbered door she knocked, stepped in, and gathered plastic pitchers from both hospital-style bedside tables.

Usually the pitchers were still full from yesterday.  Regardless, she would empty them into the bathroom sink and bring them out to scoop in fresh ice before refilling them with water.

We can combine the first sentence with the second, thereby combining "the pitchers" and "them" while eliminating "regardless." In this case "still" is clutter, and can be boiled out with no loss of content.

"She would" = "She'd."

We can boil out "and" in favor of a comma, take "to" along with it, and change "before" to "and"—the sequentiality is implied.

Usually full from yesterday, she'd empty the pitchers into the bathroom sink, bring them out, scoop in fresh ice, and refill them with water.

This was the easiest chore of her day, but Dawn didn't like it.  Nearly every room she entered had a resident or two in need of something: turning over in bed, help from wheelchair to toilet, a tissue they couldn't reach….  Seldom was anyone crying out for fresh ice in his or her water pitcher.  But while she wore these little vinyl gloves, Public Health said she couldn't do anything but pass the ice.  She needed to stay sanitary.

"Was" always invites further scrutiny. Sometimes we need a more active verb, other times we can just eliminate it by trimming a few words.

Entering the rooms has already been established, so we can boil down the next sentence by making the residents the subject. At the end of that sentence, "they couldn't reach" is implied by the fact that they need help with it.

"Was" again invites scrutiny, and while boiling it out we might as well take "his or her water pitcher" with it, as we already know this is where the ice goes. As for "fresh" ice, it doesn't spoil, so as long as it's still ice, it's "fresh," so let's boil that out.

We can combine the last two sentences by making the vinyl gloves stay sanitary.

Her easiest chore, she didn't like it. Residents always needed something: turning over in bed, help from wheelchair to toilet, a tissue….  Seldom would anyone cry out for ice. But Public Health said she couldn't do anything while passing ice because her vinyl gloves needed to stay sanitary.

She was searching room 63 for Montgomery Josephson's missing water pitcher lid, the resident slumped over asleep in his wheelchair, when she heard the page: "Dawn, come to the desk, please."

We can avoid the redundancy of Montgomery Josephson being the resident by starting the sentence with his position—where "slumped over asleep" is "slept"—or better yet "snoozed" because that has a slumpier feel to it. (Yes, I know, "slumpier" is not a word!)

The missing water pitcher lid can lose "missing" because otherwise she wouldn't have to search for it, and "water" because we already know what the pitchers are for.

"Heard," like all sensory verbs, aren't necessary in a single POV, so let's boil it out.

Montgomery Josephson, room 63, snoozed in his wheelchair. Dawn searched for the lid to his pitcher and a page chimed. "Dawn, come to the desk, please."

The nursing home's intercom system was used freely.  That particular page came a dozen times a day, when the nurse wanted her to take a temperature or help transfer a resident.  During the ice pass, though, they would call another CNA for such chores.  Dawn was apprehensive as she walked the fifty feet to the nurses' station.

The first sentence is utterly redundant with the second.

"That particular page" can lose "particular."

The third sentence can be replaced with "but not during the ice pass."

We can boil out the "was" by moving "apprehensive" to the beginning of the last sentence. "The fifty feet" can lose "the."

That page came a dozen times a day, when the nurse wanted her to take a temperature or help transfer a resident, but not during the ice pass. Apprehensive, Dawn walked fifty feet to the nurses' station.

"Your mother, Dawn," one of the nurses told her.  "Line two."

"One of the nurses" is "a nurse," and instead of a dialogue tag (told her), we can add a small action tag instead. Also, we can drop "Dawn," as people rarely use one another's names in direct address.

The nurse looked up. "Your mother. Line two."

Personal calls to employees were frowned upon, but when they came in they were allowed.  Dawn's mother did not hesitate to call if she needed something from the grocery store, or wanted to vent about an undeserved charge on a medical bill.  Dawn could not discourage her.

Today's call, however, was neither of those.  She knew that before she picked up the receiver.

The passive voice here is fine, as we're talking about a company policy, but "when they came in they were" is unnecessary. I'm somewhat inclined to boil out "to employees," but to make it absolutely clear that we're not talking about calls to/from residents I've decided to leave it in.

Lack of hesitation is conveyed through the list of trivialities, wherein we can boil "grocery" from "grocery store," "wanted" from "or wanted to," and "an undeserved charge on a medical bill" is an "undeserved medical charge."

"Could not" = "couldn't."

We can combine the last two sentences, and thus boil out a few words. As we know that phones have receivers, we can boil out "the receiver" from the end of the sentence.

Personal calls to employees were frowned upon but allowed.  Dawn's mother called if she needed something from the store, or to vent about an undeserved medial charge. Dawn couldn't discourage her.

She knew this was different before she picked up.

"Dawn, we did it," her mother announced.  "Eric is coming home!"

Shit.  "That's great, Mom."

"It was the way he handled himself at the hearing.  He spoke right up, looking those people in the eye."

"I know, you told me about it."

"He's coming home next Wednesday, Dawn.  He just called."

"Okay, that's fine.  I—"

"You'll have to go get him.  One o'clock, they said."

"All right, Mom.  I know.  I'll be there."

"This is so wonderful.  I've prayed for this."

"Yeah, Ma, it is.  I'm happy for you.  I've got to go.  I've got someone on the pot."

We can lose the speech tag from her mom's first announcement, the later proper names (Dawn and Ma, respectively), and other than that we can leave this alone. If the conversation went much further, I'd suggest adding some action—Dawn reacting physically to the news, or the nurse raising a nosy eyebrow, or what-have-you to break up the dialogue.

"Dawn, we did it. Eric is coming home!"

Shit. "That's great, Mom."

"It was the way he handled himself at the hearing. He spoke right up, looking those people in the eye."

"I know, you told me about it."

"He's coming home next Wednesday. He just called."

"Okay, that's fine. I—"

"You'll have to go get him. One o'clock, they said."

"All right, Mom. I know. I'll be there."

"This is so wonderful. I've prayed for this."

"Yeah, it is. I'm happy for you. I've got to go. I've got someone on the pot."

The Result:

Dawn Taylor pushed the aluminum ice cart along the brightly lit west corridor of Lincoln's Manor Convalescent Center, a few errant strands writhing free from the rubber band holding her dark pony tail. Invisible in white slacks and a pale blue top, at each numbered door she knocked, stepped in, and gathered plastic pitchers from both hospital-style bedside tables.

Usually full from yesterday, she'd empty the pitchers into the bathroom sink, bring them out, scoop in fresh ice, and refill them with water.

Her easiest chore, she didn't like it. Residents always needed something: turning over in bed, help from wheelchair to toilet, a tissue….  Seldom would anyone cry out for ice. But Public Health said she couldn't do anything while passing ice because her vinyl gloves needed to stay sanitary.

Montgomery Josephson, room 63, snoozed in his wheelchair. Dawn searched for the lid to his pitcher and a page chimed. "Dawn, come to the desk, please."

That page came a dozen times a day, when the nurse wanted her to take a temperature or help transfer a resident, but not during the ice pass. Apprehensive, Dawn walked fifty feet to the nurses' station.

The nurse looked up. "Your mother. Line two."

Personal calls to employees were frowned upon but allowed.  Dawn's mother called if she needed something from the store, or to vent about an undeserved medial charge. Dawn couldn't discourage her.

She knew this was different before she picked up.

"Dawn, we did it. Eric is coming home!"

Shit. "That's great, Mom."

"It was the way he handled himself at the hearing. He spoke right up, looking those people in the eye."

"I know, you told me about it."

"He's coming home next Wednesday. He just called."

"Okay, that's fine. I—"

"You'll have to go get him. One o'clock, they said."

"All right, Mom. I know. I'll be there."

"This is so wonderful. I've prayed for this."

"Yeah, it is. I'm happy for you. I've got to go. I've got someone on the pot."

That's 337 words, down from 443, a reduction of 24%. What do you think?

(Actually) Boiling Liz Long

So get this: last week I boiled down Liz Long's zombie story, only I didn't boil it down, I fleshed it out. (Fleshed. Zombies. Heh.)

Here's what I didn't know: Liz wrote the piece as a journal entry found in a group of artifacts from a zombie outbreak, with an unknown narrator. That throws last week's anti-boiling out the window (although I stand by it for what it was!)

This is a journal, written at a time when fecal matter and fans are getting well-entwined, and as such I imagine that it would be much, much shorter. You could probably condense it down to three or four lines that outline the meat of what happened, but I'm not going to do that. I'll treat it as the intentionally impersonal "tell not show" that it is, and focus on the language paragraph by paragraph.

So let's try this again. 497 words of zombie-apocalypse journal, boiled down starting now.

The Original:

The hospital survivors had told us the basic outline of their story already, but now they filled in the details. Radiology was the first trouble spot. Laura and Grace’s parents worked in the hospital and forced them to volunteer as Candystripers, wearing red and white (candy) striped pinafores, after everything started falling apart. It kept their whole family close together, in case anything happened, but they weren’t exactly happy campers about doing volunteer work when school wasn’t even requiring it.

As a result, they took a lot of breaks. They noticed the first problem on their way to the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips. Also, no one in Radiology would notice or care that they didn’t exactly ask for permission to take another break. Anyhow, as they got closer, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. The sounds worried Laura and Grace enough to peek through the doors before walking in. The bloodstained walls and odd movements of the people they saw convinced them to leave very quickly, and very, very quietly.

They wrote a warning note to put on the door, but Radiology fell apart in those few minutes and fighting was bumping up against the doors. Before leaving again, they thought ahead enough to hold the doors shut while they threaded an IV stand through the door handles. Now, nothing could escape easily. They backed quietly away and raced to find their parents. On the way, they ran into their new friend Brando. As he gathered his spilled tools, they filled him in. As they returned to the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

On their way, the sound of bad things came from Oncology and, more faintly, the lobby bathrooms. Together, they used some tubing to quietly tie the oncology doors shut. By the time they reached their parents, Grace and Laura were terrified. Maybe that’s why their parents believed them so quickly. Laura’s stepmother and Grace’s dad started talking to charge nurses, coordinating getting people to safety, and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief. She made an announcement that, “some departments have been closed indefinitely, including Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. A complete list is being sent to all staff email accounts and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People were smart enough to recognize that was a bad sign and started leaving – effective immediately – with their sick friends and relatives. Hardly any officially checked out before leaving. Most simply fled.

After an hour, there were a lot less people, a barricade on the hallway leading to Oncology, a small tangle in the parking lot as too many cars tried to leave at once, and another announcement. “The hospital is closing effective as soon as possible. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

The Condensation:

The hospital survivors had told us the basic outline of their story already, but now they filled in the details. Radiology was the first trouble spot. Laura and Grace’s parents worked in the hospital and forced them to volunteer as Candystripers, wearing red and white (candy) striped pinafores, after everything started falling apart. It kept their whole family close together, in case anything happened, but they weren’t exactly happy campers about doing volunteer work when school wasn’t even requiring it.

As a result, they took a lot of breaks. They noticed the first problem on their way to the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips. Also, no one in Radiology would notice or care that they didn’t exactly ask for permission to take another break. Anyhow, as they got closer, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. The sounds worried Laura and Grace enough to peek through the doors before walking in. The bloodstained walls and odd movements of the people they saw convinced them to leave very quickly, and very, very quietly.

We learn that they're hospital employees right away, and they could hardly tell a story were they not survivors.

To tell a basic outline is to "outline." "Already" and "they" are clutter.

"Radiology was the first trouble spot" is redundant with the following paragraph, so let's boil it out.

The red and white pinafores bother me a bit. In an account of how they survived a zombie outbreak, what kind of sociopath would comment on what people were wearing, unless it was pertinent to their survival?

"As a result" = "So", and we can combine this with the previous paragraph.

We don't have to say that they noticed a problem, we can just present the problem—in the same way, we don't have to say that the Radiology vending machine was the only one with potato chips (which I find unlikely anyway), only that it had chips that served as their motivation to go there.

We can probably boil out either "odd noises" or "moaning," but they're sufficiently distinct that I'll leave them both.

That they peeked implies their worry, and if they never walk in, they don't do so "before" walking in.

We also don't need to say that what they saw convinced them, as this is obvious from their course of action. "Odd movements" is vague, perhaps too vague—it doesn't convey much of anything to the reader. Let's use "jerky movements."

To leave very quickly and very quietly is to "slink away."

They'd outlined their story, and now filled in the details. The candystripers, Laura and Grace, didn't like volunteering where their parents worked, so they took a lot of breaks. On their way to the Radiology vending machine for potato chips, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. They peeked through the doors at the bloodstained walls and jerky movements, then slunk away.

They wrote a warning note to put on the door, but Radiology fell apart in those few minutes and fighting was bumping up against the doors. Before leaving again, they thought ahead enough to hold the doors shut while they threaded an IV stand through the door handles. Now, nothing could escape easily. They backed quietly away and raced to find their parents. On the way, they ran into their new friend Brando. As he gathered his spilled tools, they filled him in. As they returned to the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

They can't leave in the previous paragraph (much less very quickly) and write a note to put on the door. Either they leave a note first, or they skedaddle. Given what you might see in a break room full of zombies, my money's on the skedaddlin'!

They can't do things in Radiology after leaving (again), so "Before leaving again" can be boiled out. That they used the IV stand to keep the doors closed is sufficient evidence that they thought of doing so, as well.

"Now" is worse than clutter, because in a third-person journal written after the fact it doesn't make sense. Out it goes.

While we're at it, "easily" is implied—with difficulty, most people can do most things!

We either need to change the "and" to a "then," or, in keeping with my preferences, eliminate either the "backed quietly away" or the "raced." As the hurry causes Brando to spill his tools, let's boil out the former.

"On the way" is clutter. "Ran into" is too figurative—the spilled tools made me double-take the first time. How about "crashed into"?

That Brando was their new friend is also one of those details that stood out to me as extraneous in a journal about survival.

The penultimate sentence is fine as-is, but if I can be picky in a vague sort of way for a moment, I think we can make it read just a hair faster by switching the order—we lose a comma, and thus a pause, even though we don't boil out any words.

The "As" can be boiled out with no loss of content if we change "returned to" with "headed for".

Radiology fell apart. They threaded an IV stand through the doors handles so nothing could escape. They raced to find their parents, and crashed into Brando. They filled him in as he gathered his spilled tools. They headed for the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

On their way, the sound of bad things came from Oncology and, more faintly, the lobby bathrooms. Together, they used some tubing to quietly tie the oncology doors shut. By the time they reached their parents, Grace and Laura were terrified. Maybe that’s why their parents believed them so quickly. Laura’s stepmother and Grace’s dad started talking to charge nurses, coordinating getting people to safety, and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

"On their way" is implied, and "the sound of bad things" are "bad sounds."

"More faintly" is another detail I don't think would make it into a third-person journal entry of this kind.

"They" implies "together", "some" is clutter, and "quietly" falls into the same category as "more faintly."

We can combine the next two sentences, and in doing so boil out about half the words contained therein. Linking the now-single sentence to the next, we can boil out the clunkily-inserted information that they're step sisters, and remove the "started [verb]ing" (which I've commented on many times in the past).

Bad sounds came from Oncology and the lobby bathrooms. They tied the oncology doors shut with tubing. Their parents reacted quickly to the girls' terrified story, coordinating with charge nurses to get people to safety and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief. She made an announcement that, “some departments have been closed indefinitely, including Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. A complete list is being sent to all staff email accounts and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People were smart enough to recognize that was a bad sign and started leaving – effective immediately – with their sick friends and relatives. Hardly any officially checked out before leaving. Most simply fled.

"She made an announcement that"  = "who announced."

As to the announcement itself, we can boil out a few words and make it sound more like an announcement. Furthermore, a "complete list" of three departments sounds a little unnecessary. (The passive voice is exactly right; just as I choose to use passive voice for a lot of my comments on this blog, announcements are almost always made in a passive voice, so this regular no-no is a yes-yes here.)

"People were smart enough to recognize that was a bad sign" is condescending (which might be on purpose) and unnecessary. It's telling the reader something obvious, which yes, people will do in journals, but in fiction—even a fictional journal—it leaves a bad taste in the reader's mouth.

"Started leaving" is of course another "started [verb]ing", so we'll boil it out.

That hardly any checked out is telling the reader what didn't happen, which is something we want to avoid.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief, who announced, “The following departments are now closed: Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. An updated list will be emailed to all staff as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People fled with their sick friends and relatives.

After an hour, there were a lot less people, a barricade on the hallway leading to Oncology, a small tangle in the parking lot as too many cars tried to leave at once, and another announcement. “The hospital is closing effective as soon as possible. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

I'm never a fan of "there were" and "there was" type statements—any conjugation of "to be" invites further scrutiny.

"Leading to" can lose the "leading."

"A small tangle" is "a knot".

The announcement at the end clashes with itself. Staff can't "expedite patient release and transfer" (which implies paperwork) and exit the hospital "as soon as possible." Let's keep the administrative jargon, but tighten it up a bit.

An hour later, the few remaining staff had barricaded the hallway to Oncology, a knot of cars still fought to escape the parking lot, and the Chief announced, “The hospital is closing effective now. All staff will expedite patient egress. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

The Result:

They'd outlined their story, and now filled in the details. The candystripers, Laura and Grace, didn't like volunteering where their parents worked, so they took a lot of breaks. On their way to the Radiology vending machine for potato chips, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. They peeked through the doors at the bloodstained walls and jerky movements, then slunk away.

Radiology fell apart. They threaded an IV stand through the doors handles so nothing could escape. They raced to find their parents, and crashed into Brando. They filled him in as he gathered his spilled tools. They headed for the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

Bad sounds came from Oncology and the lobby bathrooms. They tied the oncology doors shut with tubing. Their parents reacted quickly to the girls' terrified story, coordinating with charge nurses to get people to safety and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief, who announced, “The following departments are now closed: Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. An updated list will be emailed to all staff as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People fled with their sick friends and relatives.

An hour later, the few remaining staff had barricaded the hallway to Oncology, a knot of cars still fought to escape the parking lot, and the Chief announced, “The hospital is closing effective now. All staff will expedite patient egress. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

Okay, so I broke one of my own rules, again—the final passage does not contain all of the information in the original. The omissions, however, were not for the sake of brevity, but because the inclusion of that information seemed out of place for an after-the-fact, third-person journal. Were it one of the girls writing the journal I would have made different choices on what to keep and what to discard.

So with that said, the final toll is 257 from 497, a condensation of 48%. What do you think?

Anti-boiling Liz Long

This weeks' sample comes from Liz Long, who sent me a piece of in-progress zombie fiction to boil down. Mmmm...boiled zombie.... *drools*

We've got 497 words in the original; let's see what we can do with it.

The Original:

The hospital survivors had told us the basic outline of their story already, but now they filled in the details. Radiology was the first trouble spot. Laura and Grace’s parents worked in the hospital and forced them to volunteer as Candystripers, wearing red and white (candy) striped pinafores, after everything started falling apart. It kept their whole family close together, in case anything happened, but they weren’t exactly happy campers about doing volunteer work when school wasn’t even requiring it.

As a result, they took a lot of breaks. They noticed the first problem on their way to the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips. Also, no one in Radiology would notice or care that they didn’t exactly ask for permission to take another break. Anyhow, as they got closer, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. The sounds worried Laura and Grace enough to peek through the doors before walking in. The bloodstained walls and odd movements of the people they saw convinced them to leave very quickly, and very, very quietly.

They wrote a warning note to put on the door, but Radiology fell apart in those few minutes and fighting was bumping up against the doors. Before leaving again, they thought ahead enough to hold the doors shut while they threaded an IV stand through the door handles. Now, nothing could escape easily. They backed quietly away and raced to find their parents. On the way, they ran into their new friend Brando. As he gathered his spilled tools, they filled him in. As they returned to the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

On their way, the sound of bad things came from Oncology and, more faintly, the lobby bathrooms. Together, they used some tubing to quietly tie the oncology doors shut. By the time they reached their parents, Grace and Laura were terrified. Maybe that’s why their parents believed them so quickly. Laura’s stepmother and Grace’s dad started talking to charge nurses, coordinating getting people to safety, and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief. She made an announcement that, “some departments have been closed indefinitely, including Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. A complete list is being sent to all staff email accounts and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People were smart enough to recognize that was a bad sign and started leaving – effective immediately – with their sick friends and relatives. Hardly any officially checked out before leaving. Most simply fled.

After an hour, there were a lot less people, a barricade on the hallway leading to Oncology, a small tangle in the parking lot as too many cars tried to leave at once, and another announcement. “The hospital is closing effective as soon as possible. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

The Condensation:

Sometimes to make good soup you have to add some meat. I'm going to do something a little different here, because in this passage the POV is terrifically muddled in a way I see a lot when I'm beta reading or skimming through a slush pile, and I think/hope that readers of this blog, and Ms. Lane, can take something away from this somewhat different exercise.

We're not sure in the first paragraph—or throughout—who the narrator is. We've got an indication that it's someone close to the situation because the hospital survivors had told "us" the basic outline of their story, but Laura and Grace are referred to in the third person, so it's not clear whether or not one (or both) of them are the narrator, or if it's someone else. Indeed, given that neither Laura nor Grace takes any action independent of the other, it gives us the feeling of an impersonal camera following them about the hospital...except that 500 words in we have no idea what they look like, how old they are (Ten? Eighteen?), or anything else about them besides their names, that they volunteer as candy stripers at the behest of their parents, and that they don't seem to act independently of one another.

The omniscience here gives a strong "tell" instead of "show" to the scene, which diffuses any sense of immediacy and robs it of its impact. For some reason I see this a lot in speculative fiction—I think (but don't know) that it's because the writer is trying to recreate the feel of a movie by choosing what I call a "cinematic POV," where the camera is on whatever action is happening at the moment...and this is, IMO, by and large a mistake. The cinematic POV is a necessity in movies, sometimes but usually not softened by a voice-over narration, but in a book it creates distance between the reader and the situation that renders flat any emotional impact.

Thus, my edits here are going to be more rewrites than a straight boiling—I'll aim for all the content, but will personalize the scene by choosing, say, Grace as the POV character, and assuming she's somewhere in her early- to mid-teens. While I'll try to keep the showing as tight as possible, it's likely to end up longer than the original sample.

This is of course a huge liberty I'm taking because this is a blog post and not a real edit, and as it's not strictly a boiling it's not what Liz signed up for when she submitted a sample. I hope she forgives me.

The hospital survivors had told us the basic outline of their story already, but now they filled in the details. Radiology was the first trouble spot. Laura and Grace’s parents worked in the hospital and forced them to volunteer as Candystripers, wearing red and white (candy) striped pinafores, after everything started falling apart. It kept their whole family close together, in case anything happened, but they weren’t exactly happy campers about doing volunteer work when school wasn’t even requiring it.

Things to convey here: Laura and Grace are sisters who reluctantly volunteer at the hospital at the behest of their employee parents, and they're headed to Radiology.

Grace smoothed down her red and white candy striper's pinafore and suppressed a shudder at the too-soft skin of the old man's wrinkled hand against her elbow. He shuffled toward Radiology like molasses, and she rolled her eyes at her sister. Laura smoothed back a lock of brown hair and tapped her wrist. Two more hours and their parents would finish their shifts, and they could head home from the hospital. This didn't even count toward community service.

As a result, they took a lot of breaks. They noticed the first problem on their way to the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips. Also, no one in Radiology would notice or care that they didn’t exactly ask for permission to take another break. Anyhow, as they got closer, they heard odd noises and moaning inside. The sounds worried Laura and Grace enough to peek through the doors before walking in. The bloodstained walls and odd movements of the people they saw convinced them to leave very quickly, and very, very quietly.

Things to convey: They head to the break room and...something vague convinces them to leave. (This something is indeed quite vague; that they're motivated to put a warning note on the door tells us it's serious, and I'm privy to the fact that it's a zombie novel, so likely a zombie outbreak.)

They dropped him off and cut toward the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips, and no one who'd care that they took another break. As Laura reached for the doorknob, an odd moan pierced the air from within. She froze, and Grace peeked over her shoulder through the small window. People jerked around like marionettes, the blood on their clothes matching that on the walls.

Grace pulled Laura's hand from the door, put a finger to her lips, and pulled her away.

They wrote a warning note to put on the door, but Radiology fell apart in those few minutes and fighting was bumping up against the doors. Before leaving again, they thought ahead enough to hold the doors shut while they threaded an IV stand through the door handles. Now, nothing could escape easily. They backed quietly away and raced to find their parents. On the way, they ran into their new friend Brando. As he gathered his spilled tools, they filled him in. As they returned to the ER, Brandon went to find his dad.

Content: warning note, run out of Radiology by unspecified bad things, run into Brando.

Laura scrawled a warning on a piece of paper and taped it to the door. Something crashed behind them. A scuffle erupted between three nurses, and a fourth shambled toward the fight with empty eyes and gnashing teeth. An agonized shriek erupted from a room on the left, and a patient stumbled out, covered in blood. They bolted out of the unit and Laura slammed the doors shut.

"Hurry." Laura dug in her feet and leaned against the door as something thudded against the other side. Grace grabbed an IV stand and jammed it through the handles. They backed away, then raced to find their parents.

They rounded the corner and Grace slammed into somebody. She stumbled back and looked into the shocked eyes of their new friend Brando.

"Holy crap." Grace knelt to help him pick up his spilled tools. "We need to get out of here. Radiology's gone crazy."

"Oh?" he said.

"Seriously. People are fighting, killing each other."

He looked at her hard for a moment, then nodded. "I need to find my dad."

He took off, so they dashed to the ER.

On their way, the sound of bad things came from Oncology and, more faintly, the lobby bathrooms. Together, they used some tubing to quietly tie the oncology doors shut. By the time they reached their parents, Grace and Laura were terrified. Maybe that’s why their parents believed them so quickly. Laura’s stepmother and Grace’s dad started talking to charge nurses, coordinating getting people to safety, and preparing to take out the Infected if (when) they attacked.

Content: they secure the Oncology doors, then tell their parents, who take charge.

Someone screamed in Oncology, a defiant holler that ended in piteous wailing. Laura pulled surgical tubing from an abandoned gurney, and they tied the doors shut. Wet tearing sounds and heavy breathing came from the lobby bathroom; they snuck by.

In the ER, they rushed their parents and wrapped them in panicked hugs. Shaking and sobbing, Grace just managed to tell them what they'd seen. Her mom barked orders to charge nurses, securing patients and barricading doors. Dad hefted a broom handle and lined up at the door with a few other men.

Brando’s dad told the hospital Chief. She made an announcement that, “some departments have been closed indefinitely, including Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception. A complete list is being sent to all staff email accounts and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.” People were smart enough to recognize that was a bad sign and started leaving – effective immediately – with their sick friends and relatives. Hardly any officially checked out before leaving. Most simply fled.

After an hour, there were a lot less people, a barricade on the hallway leading to Oncology, a small tangle in the parking lot as too many cars tried to leave at once, and another announcement. “The hospital is closing effective as soon as possible. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

Content: The announcement triggers an exodus. (That Brando's dad told the hospital Chief is a POV glitch in this re-write, as from Grace's POV she couldn't know that for certain.) Without belaboring the activity, the exodus can likely remain a tell.

The PA system beeped, and a woman's voice rang out. “Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception are closed indefinitely. A list of closed departments is being emailed to all staff and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.”

Visitors rushed the exits, dragging sick loved ones with them where they could. Some abandoned their kin in the waiting room, and a few employees left with them. An hour later, they'd barricaded the hallway to Oncology, and tried to ignore the tangle of cars trying to exit the parking lot. The PA rang again. “The hospital is closing. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

The Result:

Grace smoothed down her red and white candy striper's pinafore and suppressed a shudder at the too-soft skin of the old man's wrinkled hand against her elbow. He shuffled toward Radiology like molasses, and she rolled her eyes at her sister. Laura smoothed back a lock of brown hair and tapped her wrist. Two more hours and their parents would finish their shifts, and they could head home from the hospital. This didn't even count toward community service.

They dropped him off and cut toward the Radiology breakroom, which boasted the only vending machine with a selection of potato chips, and no one who'd care that they took another break. As Laura reached for the doorknob, an odd moan pierced the air from within. She froze, and Grace peeked over her shoulder through the small window. People jerked around like marionettes, the blood on their clothes matching that on the walls.

Grace pulled Laura's hand from the door, put a finger to her lips, and pulled her away.

Laura scrawled a warning on a piece of paper and taped it to the door. Something crashed behind them. A scuffle erupted between three nurses, and a fourth shambled toward the fight with empty eyes and gnashing teeth. An agonized shriek erupted from a room on the left, and a patient stumbled out, covered in blood. They bolted out of the unit and Laura slammed the doors shut.

"Hurry." Laura dug in her feet and leaned against the door as something thudded against the other side. Grace grabbed an IV stand and jammed it through the handles. They backed away, then raced to find their parents.

They rounded the corner and Grace slammed into somebody. She stumbled back and looked into the shocked eyes of their new friend Brando.

"Holy crap." Grace knelt to help him pick up his spilled tools. "We need to get out of here. Radiology's gone crazy."

"Oh?" he said.

"Seriously. People are fighting, killing each other."

He looked at her hard for a moment, then nodded. "I need to find my dad."

He took off, so they dashed to the ER.

Someone screamed in Oncology, a defiant holler that ended in piteous wailing. Laura pulled surgical tubing from an abandoned gurney, and they tied the doors shut. Wet tearing sounds and heavy breathing came from the lobby bathroom; they snuck by.

In the ER, they rushed their parents and wrapped them in panicked hugs. Shaking and sobbing, Grace just managed to tell them what they'd seen. Her mom barked orders to charge nurses, securing patients and barricading doors. Dad hefted a broom handle and lined up at the door with a few other men.

The PA system beeped, and a woman's voice rang out. “Radiology, Oncology, and Main Reception are closed indefinitely. A list of closed departments is being emailed to all staff and will be updated as needed. New admissions are suspended effective immediately.”

Visitors rushed the exits, dragging sick loved ones with them where they could. Some abandoned their kin in the waiting room, and a few employees left with them. An hour later, they'd barricaded the hallway to Oncology, and tried to ignore the tangle of cars trying to exit the parking lot. The PA rang again. “The hospital is closing. All staff will work to expedite patient release and transfer. Everyone still living needs to exit the hospital as soon as possible.”

569 from 497, an increase of 14%. I can't help but think that in this case, it isn't enough, but I don't have the time to do more.

The action here is understated and vague; the matter-of-fact statement of the noise in oncology and the subsequent tying of the doors could be elaborated into a truly creepy, heart-stopping scene of its own, instead of a perfunctory action on the way to the ER; the initial scene outside the break room could shatter the bored, carefree world of the teenaged protagonist(s) with sudden realization and dread and uncertainty; without a single shot of gore, the barricade and evacuation of the ER could be a deeply personal, gut-wrenching tragedy of panicked people either abandoning or refusing to abandon those they'd brought there.

What do you think, dear reader, of this week's anti-boiling?