Before and after of a short story

I’ve been diving back into short stories I finished forever ago to see how I can update them now that I’ve got a bit more experience writing. I thought it might be an interesting case study to do a before-and-after comparison. I’ll show you both and then give some sort of explanation of why I decided to change what I did. Maybe this is for you or maybe this is really for me to show I do put some thought behind what I’m writing…

Ultimately, as I start to take my writing more seriously, I think I have to spend more time correcting and editing. It’s something I’m not great at, so I want to challenge myself to be more direct and decisive about it.

This is from a short story originally titled When the Cardinals Came. The gist of it is about a man who comes back home to care for his dying mother and gets involved with his high school fling again. (shocker I know). Much of the story also revolves around the strange occurrence of an ever-growing population of cardinals that have taken over the town, ideally representing the descent of this man into more cardinal desires. I think it makes more sense to just shorten it to Cardinal but that might change as well.

Anyway, let’s start with the before:

My mother was dying, but this was nothing new. My mother had been dying for two years, hanging on by a bare thread--keeping us company for the hell of it--too afraid to pass away and leave our family slow, crippled, and full of pain. She lingered in living room chairs, slouching like a dogwood in the summer heat. My mother’s dying was unnatural. Her living--clinging to a dilapidated life--that was the most natural thing I had ever known. I flew in from Seattle, taking an extended absence at work to come care for her and tromp around my ancestral home planted firm in the snug soil of suburbia. 

The women in my family clung to life for eons. They did not just live in blissful monotony but suffered through it. My grandmother lived to eighty and her mother to eighty-seven, and her mother before her till the decayed age of ninety-five. Each one had been struck down by accident: a crashing car, a missed step, a fall into a raging river. The universe had to kill the matriarchs of my family line, and for good reason too: stubbornness at all costs, while good in theory can be intolerable, disadvantageous, and disastrous to the world at large.

Then the after (i’ve bolded the parts that have changed, giving footnotes to why they changed):

My mother was dying, but what else was new?1 In the grocery store parking lot, I fished my hand into the deep pockets of my coat, fumbling around for the keys to an oversized suburban with nearly bald tires.2 My mother had been dying for a decade now3; hanging on by a bare thread–keeping us company for the hell of it.4 She was afraid to pass away and certain that when she did our family would be left slow, crippled, and full of a deep and insurmountable pain. I wasn’t sold.5 Instead, she lingered in living6 room chairs slouched over like a dogwood in the summer heat. 

My mother’s dying was unnatural. Her living was the most natural thing I had ever known. Six months ago I flew in from Seattle, taking an extended absence from work to care for her and tromp around my ancestral home planted firm in the snug soil of suburbia. What started as a monthly plan turned into half a year of suffering and sponge bathes, tense conversations with the hospice nurses, and a few too many nights spent aimlessly reminiscing on past boyfriends and high school plays.7

I should have known better.8 The women in my family clung to life for eons. None of them simply lived in blissful monotony but suffered through it.9 My grandmother lived to eighty and her mother to eighty-seven. Her mother, my great-great-grandmother,10 hung on till the decaying age of ninety-five. None had died of natural causes, something else always took them out.11 A crashing car, a missed step, a fall into a raging river. The universe had to kill the matriarchs of my family line, and for good reason too: stubbornness at all costs, while great in theory, can be intolerable.12