When it comes to writing, my girlfriend and I are like Jack Sprat - I like mine lean, she likes hers fat with description. Thus, we get into quite a few "discussions" when going over each other's work. So, in the spirit of reconciliation, we're trying a quick exercise: first, she's writing a piece that I'll rewrite in my style, and in the next blog, I'll write a piece that she'll rewrite in her style.
Amy's Piece:
His hands shake. The can opener sits on the white countertop, black rubber handle pointing back at him. The carrot peels from last nights dinner look like an impressionist painting, orange dumpster paint. He holds the spam close to his chest with his left hand as his right hand adds another color. Red leaves Pollock splashes as it squirts, and in his mind, a different texture to that countertop that was so boring. Now for a neutral. Right hand still dripping, he reaches into the spam, rubbing his fingers together to feel the congealed fat. Pressing deeper, he grabs flesh. Brown fingernails pick out bits like blue cheese crumbles, the pink and brown of pork. Ahhh yes, this is the kind of painting she never would like... The flies swivel above his hand like a ceiling fan, tornadoeing themselves into the small rivits of compost. Lucille Ball's face flashes in the half open window. The cat jumps in from the bushes to the sink, and winds his tail around the inside of the man's leg. The man is too engrossed in his painting to notice. The cat cries, the cat cries louder. The cat bites. "Alright, Alright you can have some." The man lays a piece of carrot on top of a square of spam, then dots his bloody finger on it. "There you, go, everything's in order now."
My re-write:
"Ah SHIT! THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE!"
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