I thought I was done with the rough draft of Wild Aspargus, the inner story to The Asparagus Revival that I've been working on. But I realized that I wasn't so passionate about the story any more, so how could I expect anyone else to get jazzed about the book either? Rather than trying to patch it up in a crazed editing spree, I decided to just start all over, completely from scratch and rewrite the thing. And that's what I've been doing and I like it SO much better. Now I want to see what you think. Here's the first page of the first version:
In a small house that smelled of beeswax, earth and baked sugar, a plump old woman sang to herself while she worked on a pie crust, creasing the edges into heart shapes.
Out the back door, the creek rippled out a rhythm, the birds in the willow tree sang in harmony, and the scandalous red sheets on the line between the willow and the house danced a flamenco. Granny Bea creased and pressed the dough into curves and hearts along the edge of the pie plate. She laughed wholeheartedly at some memory that flitted through her memory like a butterfly on vacation, smiling lovingly as she worked the memory into the crease, and then slowly, with a concentration that stilled her fingers and the breeze from the willow, Granny Bea dripped three tears into the center of the pie crust. She sprinkled sugar over the moist spot and continued to sing:
Granny Bea’s infamous wild asparagus pies had smoothed over many lover’s tiffs, warmed countless cold feet before the wedding day, and rekindled bonfires out of the cold, dusty ashes of her neighbor’s marriages. Her pies were also outstanding for cheering up the occasional gloomy mood, temper or common cold. Granny Bea had fixed all sorts of ailments, but few were willing to chalk up the magic concoction to asparagus pie of all things. Perhaps it was just Granny Bea’s magic ways, or something in the milk she’d serve with the pie. They’d sit in her cozy kitchen at her giant table and scour the room for any hint of a cauldron, unusual herbs or jars of strange powders. They scanned the tiles she had sealed in the splashboard behind her countertops, in which she’d etched her best recipes, poems and bits of wisdom, looking for a recipe with any hint of a dragonfly wing, or frog’s tongue. None of them seemed to notice that the recipe for wild asparagus pie wasn’t up there, but then who would look for magic in wild asparagus?
And the second, rewritten - both unedited.
There was a willow. And a line that stretched from the great grandmother tree to the house with red sheets dancing a flamenco. The top half of the Dutch door opened wide into a kitchedn that smelled of gingersnaps out of the oven. And the old woman at the counter hummed as she made a pie. Her hair was combed back into a French twist, and there were flour handprints on the behind of her navy blue skirt. To watch her, one might think this was any old woman, making any old pie, in any old kitchen.
But this was Granny Bea, making her special wild asparagus pie, in her kitchen where magic was known to reside.
Granny Bea had a bakery in town which she stocked with brownies and pastries, tarts and breads and buns that had the town salivating just moving in the shop’s general direction, which was on the north end of Main Street. But customers and friends could not get her wild asparagus pies in the bakery. Those pies were served up by invitation only, reserved for special causes.
The brownies were good for hay fever. The tarts for tiresome temperaments of all sorts. The peach pastries usually preceded a small wish coming true. And the glazed donuts worked wonders on bunions, warts and corns.
But the asparagus pies - their specialty was love. Whether it was love lost, love worn out, too much love or not enough, unrequited or unrealized, the wild asparagus pies were cupid’s own pastry of choice.
Thoughts?
