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JM JINKS WIM - Jeni edit.docx

Week 6: The final edit

I've been so excited to FINALLY work with Jeni since RevPit. Not only is she a talented editor, she's a great person. You never know what you'll get when you send something to an editor. The very first time,I did, my Microsoft Word crashed because there were SO many needed changes and comments. As an author it is daunting. Trust me, even the best get tons of comments and suggestions, don't fear when you see it for the first time.

I've post her comments and suggestions so to highlight the process.

The Witching Hour- Final Draft

The bell tolled on beat with my heart. One. Thump. Two. Thump. I had mere moments to reach the shore before the clock would strike twelve and the boat would depart. On the witching hour.

I tugged the hood of my cloak lower and slid from the shadowed crevice I’d been hiding in, waiting for this moment.

Three. Thump.

Not a light shone in my path, save the blanket of stars above my head. Chance was on my side. Following the winding cobblestone streets, briny fog crept in from the bay, camouflaging me. I was nothing more than an apparition in the night. A ghost coming to haunt the town. Fitting. That’d be all that was left of me if I stayed since they’d cried witch after catching me with Rose.

My chin trembled. Rose.

Four. Thump.

It was just a kiss.

The moment her soft lips caressed mine, everything I’d been confused about fell into place. I’d never quite fit in. Had no desire to be a doting wife. And when the urges I’d been—no, we’d been fighting—finally escaped, I at last understood why.

Five. Thump. Time was fleeting.

A floating lantern barely visible through the dense fog drew my sight. No! I tiptoed to the nearest building and hugged the side, falling into the deep shadows as two men neared. They wore oversized hats and thick-buckled belts. A chill rolled down my spine. Puritans. The people who loathed anyone who didn’t share their views.

Six. Thump.

I held my breath so they’d not overhear my labored breathing, my body stiff against the cool, moss-covered bricks of the building. I shut my eyes. Please, dear lord, do not let these men find me.

Seven. Thump.

When their footsteps distanced, I let loose my breath and peeled open my eyes. My desperate lungs filled with burning air as I collapsed against the wall. Warm tears pricked my eyes. Close. Too close. I straightened and smoothed the cotton of my cloak and skirt.

I picked up my pace.

Just a kiss, yet, when the Puritan boy saw us, I knew our lives neared an end. Abomination. Sinner. Jezebel. Harlot. Those words I could ignore. But the word witch—it carried a mortal sentence.

Eight. Thump.

At the water’s edge I’d have to make a run for the shore, in full view of those searching for me. I scanned the starlit beach, looking for the little boat that’d take me away from Massachusetts—to freedom.

Nine. Thump.

The trial had been a hunt. The people yearned for us to admit to being witches. They craved to watch us burn. As if they could relieve the human feelings they suppressed in this perverse killing of humans, claiming it to be the word of God. Every interaction I’d ever had they twisted into a horrible fuel for the flame of the stake I’d soon find myself on if I got caught.

Ten. Thump.

The stake Rose would’ve burned on.

I couldn’t let that happen. As foolish as it was, I admitted to being a witch and claimed to have enchanted Rose. I’d ensured her life and damned mine.

Because that was what it meant to love someone. It would be my honor to burn if it meant her laughter would still grace this world.

I surveyed the shoreline once more. Where is it? There was no boat in sight. Rose promised she’d secure my escape at midnight! Had I been betrayed?

Eleven. Thump.

No. No. No! I scrunched the folds of my skirts into my fists.

They would find me gone from the holding cell at dawn, if they hadn’t already, and search for me immediately. I would never get far enough on foot. The boat was my only chance. My legs tingled and my chest filled with sharp pain. Breathing became too difficult. Every pull of oxygen lit my lungs on fire.

Twelve. Thump.

My time was up. The boat could wait no longer, if it even existed.

I fell to my knees, sinking deep into the sand. How could our love be so wrong?

A small flickering light caught my attention, twenty feet in the bobbing water. I stilled.

The boat.

For once, the fire burning in my heart wasn’t my enemy, but Rose’s nurturing love. She did love me.

My wheezes turned to sobs. I brought my hand to my lips to cover the sound as my body shuddered.

I would survive.

Thank you for this idea HM!

And see, fangirl support, thank you Paulette!

Week 5: CP edits

First, big 'ol thank you to HM Bravermen and Paulette Wiles. I appreciate your feedback and adore both of you and have loved getting to know both of you better these past few months.

Second, I love getting critiqued and giving them. We all tackle them different ways. I'm a line edit and grammar/word choice person. Very bad about bigger picture. When we are paired in a random way, it is super cool, because we all have different style.

Paulette and I are similar in style and even genre, so its great because we got to fan girl over each other's work. Which, in edits, is always nice. HM is a developmental, story arc genius and a complete different style than me in the way she tackled it, so that is great for learning new things. Both helped me bog down wordy heavy sentences and develop the arc better.


Final draft before editor rounds, after CP feedback:

The bell tolled on beat with my heart. One. Thump. Two. Thump. I had mere moments to reach the boat before the clock would strike twelve and it’d depart. On the witching hour.

I tugged the hood of my cloak lower and slid from the shadowed crevice I’d been hiding in, waiting for this moment.

Three.

Not a light shone in my path save the blanket of stars hovering above my head. Chance was on my side. Following the winding cobblestone streets, briny fog crept in from the bay, camouflaging me. I was nothing more than an apparition in the night. A ghost coming to haunt the town. Fitting, that’d be all that was left of me if I stayed ever since they cried witch after catching me with Rose.

My chin trembled. Rose.

Four.

It was just a kiss.

The moment her soft lips touched mine, everything I’d been confused about fell into place. I’d never quite fit in. Had no desire to be a doting wife. And when the urges I’d been—no, we’d been fighting—finally escaped, I finally understood why.

Five. Time was fleeting.

A floating lantern barely visible through the dense fog drew my sight. No! My breath hitched. I tiptoed to the nearest building and hugged the side, falling into the deep shadows as the two men neared. They wore oversized hats and thick-buckled belts. A chill rolled down my spine. Puritans. The people who loathed anyone who didn’t share their views.

Six.

I held my breath so they’d not overhear my labored breathing, my body stiff against the cool, moss covered bricks of the building. I shut my eyes. Please, dear lord, do not let these men find me.

Seven.

When their footsteps distanced, I let loose my breath and peeled open my eyes. My desperate lungs filled with burning air as I collapsed against the wall. Warm tears pricked my eyes. Close. Too close. I straightened and smoothed the cotton of my cloak and skirt.

I picked up my pace.

Just a kiss, yet, when the Puritan boy saw us, I knew our lives neared an end. Abomination. Sinner. Jezebel. Harlot. Those words I could ignore—but the word witch—it carried a mortal weight.

Eight.

At the water’s edge I’d have to make a run for the shore out in the open, in full view of those searching for me. I scanned the moonlit beach, looking for the little boat that’d take me away from Massachusetts—to freedom.

Nine.

The trial had been a hunt. The people wanted us to admit to being witches. They yearned to watch us burn. As if the human feelings they suppressed, they could relieve in this perverse killing of humans, claiming it to be the word of God. Every interaction I’d ever had they twisted into a horrible fuel for the flame of the stake I’d soon find myself on if I got caught.

Ten.

The stake Rose would’ve burned on.

I couldn’t let that happen. As foolish as it was, I admitted to being a witch and claimed to have enchanted Rose. I’d ensured her life and damned mine.

Because that was what it meant to love someone. It would be my honor to burn if it meant her laughter would still grace this world.

I surveyed the shoreline once more. Where is it? There was no boat in sight. Rose promised she’d secure my escape at midnight! Had I been betrayed?

Eleven.

No. No. No! I scrunched the folds of my skirts into my fists.

They would find me gone at dawn, if they hadn’t already, and search for me immediately. I would never get far enough on foot, the boat was my only chance. My legs tingled and my chest filled with sharp pain. Breathing became too difficult. Every pull of oxygen lit my lungs on fire. Like the fire I’d burn on in mere hours.

Twelve. My time was up. The boat could wait no longer, if it even existed.

I fell to my knees, sinking deep into the sand. How could our love be so wrong?

A small flickering light caught my attention, twenty feet in the bobbing water. I stilled.

The boat.

My wheezes turned to sobs. I brought my hand to my lips to cover the sound as my body shuddered.

I would survive.


Week 4: SelfEdits—The Witching Hour

The bell tolled on beat with my heart. One. Thump. Two. Thump. Three. Thump. On and on until it reached twelve. The witching hour.

I tugged the hood of my cloak lower and slid from the shadowed crevice I’d been hiding in, waiting for this moment.

Not a light shone in my path save for the blanket of stars hovering above my head. Chance was on my side tonight.

Following the winding cobblestone streets, briny fog creeped in from the bay, further camouflaging me. I was nothing more than an apparition in the night. A ghost coming to haunt the town. Fitting, as they’d already cried witch after catching me with Rose.

I sighed. Rose.

It had just been a kiss.

The moment her soft lips touched mine, everything I had ever been confused about fell into place. I’d never quite fit in with the other ladies in town. Had no desire to be a doting wife. And the moment our lips connected, the urge I’d been fighting finally escaping, I at last understood why.

A floating lantern barely visible through the dense fog drew my sight. My breath hitched. I tiptoed to the nearest building and hugged the side, falling into the deep shadows as the two men neared. Their oversized black hats and clothes wrapped with thick-buckled belts tight around their stout bellies brought a chill down my spine. Puritans.

I held my breath so they’d not overhear my labored breathing, my body stiff against the cool, moss covered bricks of the building. I shut my eyes. Please, dear lord, I am not a witch. Do not let these men find me.

When their footsteps distanced, I let loose my breath and peeled open my eyes. Stinging oxygen filled my lungs as I bent at the waist. The warmth of tears pricked my eyes. Close. Too close. I straightened and smoothed the cotton of my cloak and skirt. I’d need to hurry to make it in time. To live.

After the little puritan boy saw Rose and I together, I knew my life neared an end. Abomination. Sinner. Jezebel. Harlot. Those words I could easily ignore. But when the townspeople cried witch—the reality of our situation sank in.

Nearly at the water’s edge I’d have to make a run for the shore out in the open, with no shadows of buildings to hide in. I searched the moonlit beach, looking for the little boat that’d take me away from Massachusetts. Take me to freedom.

The trial had not been a trial, but a hunt. The people wanted us to admit to being witches, even if we weren’t. They yearned to watch us burn. As if the human feelings they suppressed, they could relieve in this perverse killing of humans, claiming it to be the word of God. Every interaction I’d ever had with anybody, they scrutinized and twisted into a horrible fuel for the flame of the stake I’d soon find myself on if my plan didn’t work.

The stake Rose would’ve burned on.

I couldn’t let that happen. As foolish as it was, I admitted to being a witch and claimed to have enchanted Rose. I’d ensured her life and damned mine.

But I’d do it over again. Again and again. Because that was what it meant to love someone. To burn on a stake in place of the one person who shone light on my soul would be my honor if it meant her light laughter would still fill the world.

But I had a chance for freedom, so I took it.

I surveyed the shoreline once more. Where is it? Had I been betrayed? There was no boat in sight.

No. No. No! I scrunched the folds of my skits into my fists.

The puritans would find me gone at dawn and search for me immediately. My legs tingled and my chest filled with a sharp pain. Breathing became too difficult. Every pull of oxygen lit my lungs on fire. Like the fire I’d burn on in mere hours. Searing quick wheezes ripped out me.

I fell to my knees, sinking deep into the sand. How could love be so wrong?

A small flickering light caught my attention twenty feet in the bobbing water. I stilled.

The boat.

My wheezes turned to sobs. I brought my hand to my lips to cover the sound as my body shuddered.

I would survive.

Week 3: First draft— The Witching Hour

The bell tolled on beat with my heart. One. Thump. Two. Thump. Three. Thump. On and on until it reached twelve. The witching hour.

I tugged the hood of my cloak lower and slid from the dark, shadowed crevice I’d been hiding in, waiting for this moment.

Not a light shone in the horizon save for the blanket of stars hovering above my head. Chance was on my side tonight.

Following the winding cobblestone streets, fog creeped in from the bay, further camouflaging me. I was nothing more than a apparition in the night. A ghost coming to haunt the town. Fitting, as they’d already cried witch after catching me with Rose.

I sighed. Rose.

It had just been a kiss.

The moment her soft lips touched mine, everything I had ever been confused about fell into place. I’d never quite fit in with the other ladies in town. Had no desire to be a doting wife. And the moment our lips connected, I finally understood why.

A hovering lantern barely visible through the dense fog drew my sight. My breath hitched. I tiptoed to the nearest building and hugged the side, falling into the deep shadows as the two men neared. Their oversized black clothes with thick buckled belts wrapped tight around their stout bellies and large, impractical hats brought a chill down my spine. Puritans.

I held my breath so they’d not overhear my labored breathing, my body stiff against the cool bricks of the building. I shut my eyes. Please, dear lord, I am not a witch. Do not let these men find me.

Only when their footsteps distanced did I let loose my my breath and peel my eyes open. The oxygen filled my lungs painfully, as I bent at the waist. The warmth of tears pricked my eyes. Close. Too close. I straightened and smoothed the cotton of my cloak and skirt. I’d need to hurry to make it in time. To live.

After the puritan little boy saw Rose and I together, I knew my life neared an end. Abomination. Sinner. Jezebel. Harlot. Those were words I could easily ignore. But when the townspeople cried witch—the reality of our situation sank in.

Nearly at the water’s edge I’d have to make a run for the shore out in the open, with no shadows to hid in. I searched the beach, looking for the little boat that’d take me away from Virgina. Take me to freedom.

The trial had not been a trial, but a hunt. These people wanted us to admit to being witches. They yearned to see us burn. As if every human feeling they suppressed, they relieved in this perverse killing of humans, claiming it to be the word of God. Every interaction I’d ever had with anybody was scrutinized and twisted into horrible fuel to the flame to the stake I’d soon find myself on.

The stake Rose would soon burn on.

I couldn’t let that happen. So I admitted to being a witch and claimed to enchant Rose. I’d ensured her life and damned mine.

I surveyed the shoreline again. Where is it? Had I been betrayed? There was no boat in sight. No. No. No. I scrunched the folds of my skits into my fists.

My legs tingled and my chest filled with a sharp pain. Breathing became too difficult. Every pull of oxygen lit my lungs on fire. Like the fire I’d burn on in the morning if I didn’t make an escape. Searing quick wheezes ripped out me.

Until a small flickering caught my attention twenty feet into the bobbing water.

The boat.

My wheezes turned to sobs. I brought my hand to my lips to cover the sound as my body shuddered.

I would survive.


Week 2: Reaction

Hey all! I hope you are all excited to follow along our journeys. I am so excited to see what others have written and CAN'T wait to show my response. I wrote it an hour after Jeni shared the prompt because I was so excited.

The prompt is this beautiful photo. I've never written off of a photo, but I use Pinterest images often for my own writing for inspiration, so I naturally slipped into the process and wrote my piece.

My reaction to the photo: My very first thought was STARLIGHT. I've always been a fan of stars and when I was little, my parents allowed me to paint my bedroom a dark blue (ceilings and all, why?!?!) and then we stenciled a boarder of a sun, moon, and stars in a gold at the top.

My second reaction was: What happened? Who were these people on board? Were they trying to escape?

Alas, I sat down and watched a blinking cursor on a Google docs. I knew my first line and I knew no other direction. And I wrote. Voilà, twenty minutes later, I had my piece.

I'm a quintessential panster writer and WIM was no different. My eye is twitching looking at the typos and wordy sentences, but I have't touched it, I promise. You all will see the drafiest first draft version.

See you Saturday!

<---Teaser!

What is #WriterInMotion ?

PROJECT GOAL: To create a space where readers can see how a writer moves through the drafting, feedback and editing process to create a polished work.

This will be a week-by-week process where 12 writers will draft a short story, revise, rewrite, digest feedback, and blog about their process as they move from start to finish.

AUTHORS:

  1. K. J. Harrowick (http://blog.halon-chronicles.com & http://kjharrowick.wordpress.com)
  2. Jen Karner (http://www.SyllablesandSass.com)
  3. H.M. Braverman (http://hmbraverman.com)
  4. J.M. Jinks (www.authorjmjinks.com)
  5. Melissa Bergum (will be posting via KJ’s site)
  6. Thuy Nguyen (http://www.tmnstories.com)
  7. Kristen Howe https://kristenswritingendeavors.wordpress.com/
  8. Kathryn Hewitt https://spinningmyyarns.wordpress.com/
  9. Sean Willson (https://www.seanwillson.com/blog/)
  10. Paulette Wiles (http://www.paulettewiles.com)
  11. Talynn (inkinthebook.blogspot.com)
  12. Ellen Mulholland (www.ellenmulholland.com)

EDITORS:

Jeni Chappelle https://www.jenichappelleeditorial.com/

Carly Hayward https://booklighteditorial.com/


Hello!!

Hi all!

I'm JM Jinks and I write fantasy (many genres) usually with a sprinkling of romance and steamy scenes. I also have a fondness for all things dark and clichés or tropes.

I am a published author of Mostly Innocent, A Powers That Be Novel. I'm currently undergoing a mentorship for #WriteMentor for my work-in-progress novel Stars & Chains with TWO fabulous authors—M. Dalto and Laynie Bynum. Stars & Chains is a 2019 #RevPit runner-up winner. Additionally, I am always querying and seeking agent representation.

So, now we got that out of the way, a little about me. I am a mom, a full-time French teacher, and a wife. I live in beautiful Southern California. I'm a francophile and travel lover. Wine and coffee are life. Literally. I don't know if I could live without them. Yes, I just used literally figuratively, but that's how strongly I love coffee and wine.

If I'm not writing, you'll find me at a coffeeshop, animatedly roaring to my son like a dinosaur, on a girls trip with the best BFFs/tribe ever, talking crap & life with my two sisters, and generally doing outrageous dance moves.

Currently on my Netflix/Hulu list: Lucifer, Umbrella Academy, The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Friends, Charmed (OG), Buffy, & Hands Maid Tale, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

Books on my Kindle: Sara J Maas' ACOTAR (always). Red, White, & Royal Blue. The Night Circus. And a Karina Halle book. (also always.)

What I hope to get out of Writer In Motion: The revision process is daunting and extra support is always great. I'm excited to work with other authors and editors. I'm very externally motivated, so I can't wait to hear what they think. I hope they rip my work to shreds so I can grow and be better. Ultimately, I want to learn more.

Follow along my #WriterInMotion journey on Twitter and earn entries to win a a query letter and 3 chapter critique (up to 35 double spaced pages.) I'll choose 2 winners in July! (Based on retweets, following, & interactions!)

Why people are so mad about Dany?

<-- WHY PEOPLE ARE SO MAD ABOUT DANY:

5/20/19

SPOILER ALERT: Reaction piece to the Game of Thrones Series Finale

MI editing

May 2019

Hi all!

I've entered a lot of contests recently, shared and swapped pages, CPd & beta read, and given feedback.

I am humbled and proud of the feedback I receive on my pages and the feedback on my feedback. Lol.

I've also seen a lot of you deflated.

Winning contests is amazing. I've worked hard to get to this level. I still have a TON to learn. But I will learn it.

I know I'll learn it, because I will work for it. I will work my derrière off for it.

Writing is talent to an extent, but it's more so a lot of hard work. If you're willing to learn, practice, read, and edit, edit, edit. You can be better.

To show you how far I've come and the positive effects these writing contests can have, I posted an early version of my published series. I edited it real quick to show you today how I'd polish it and posted the final published version so you can see the growth and changes.

I entered it in #pitchwars. Didn't even get a request, but I met some AMAZING other writers who gave me invaluable feedback.

After rounds of revisions, I didn't land an agent, but I did impress and editor who saw potential and loved my story as much as I did. (She's amazing btw. Celia Breslin, thank you for taking a chance on me.)

In the end, I became better. Still not the next JK Rowling, but I'm growing.

Moral of the story: DON'T STOP!