Writing, Rewriting and Raccoons

Lately, I’ve been asked if my book is finished.  People are surprised when I answer I have finished the first book twice and am now working on the fourth draft.  (An unfinished third draft exists.)  Based on critiques of parts of the fourth draft, all I can say with certainty is there will definitely be a fifth!

 I didn’t know when I decided to try novel-writing that the second draft is not just the first draft edited to fix grammatical errors.  This is especially so if – like mine – the first draft wasn’t plotted.  Even though it’s in sentences, paragraphs and scenes, maybe even chapters, it’s more like an outline.  You try to write it as well as you can, but it’s more important to keep going and get the story down than it is to perfect every sentence.

You start the second draft knowing more about the story than you did before.  You know the ending and more about your characters, and can start to build in things like foreshadowing. You discover unnecessary verbiage, plot holes, redundancies, time sequences that don’t make sense and subplots that are left hanging.  Some of your characters’ names, appearances or backstories change, not as part of the story but because you didn’t recall or keep track of their attributes while you wrote.  There are scenes the reader cannot picture because you haven’t shown them what it looks, feels, smells or sounds like.

As parts of my fourth draft have been critiqued in my Thursday night writing workshop, I’ve learned I’ve sometimes devoted too few words to key story developments, while over-dwelling on less significant things.  The hardest part about correcting the latter is that it entails deleting some possibly fun, well-crafted prose.  Writers call it “killing your darlings.”  The stressful part about fleshing out the more important scenes is that you’re writing first-draft stuff again!  Will these paragraphs or pages need to be rewritten as many times as the original writing?  Ernest Hemingway is credited with having said “the only kind of writing is rewriting.”

Given this potentially never-ending process, I asked how does a writer know when the work-in-progress is ready to be taken to the next steps of seeking out agents and trying to publish?  I was told that if I could get the rest of the book to the level of the chapter that had just been critiqued, I would be ready!  I was shocked and encouraged, but my next two critiques identified the need to expand some scenes and rewrite one element to make it more believable, so I’m back to thinking I have a long way to go.

Back to the title of this post, what does any of this have to do with raccoons? 

Two or three nights last week, after dark, I heard the sounds of raccoons fighting and splashing in the tidal pond behind my house.  I also read a news story about a deadly raccoon parasite recently infecting people in Los Angeles.  

With all this in mind, I remembered the only horror story I’ve ever written was about raccoons.  As part of a weekly writing challenge I was doing in 2018, I was assigned to write a 1000-word horror story.  Having experienced, in real life, raccoons in the attic of the Tybee house and hearing a friend talk about how much more relentless nature seems to him in the southeastern U.S. than up north, I came up with “Masked and Relentless.”

Today, as a writing exercise, I decided to rewrite the 2018 story using techniques I’ve learned since then.  Doing this, I reduced the story from 1000 words to 638 - killed a lot of darlings!  If you have a few minutes to read both versions, let me know which you like better and what differences in writing style or techniques you can discern.

Masked and Relentless - 2018 version

“Do you think they’ll be OK?” Rachel asked Mark as he drove the Jeep away from the Pet Resort.

“They’ll be fine,” Mark said. “We’ve boarded those dogs for 10 years; why shouldn’t they be OK?”

“It’s a new place, and they’re old.”

“Stop worrying. You read all those good reviews. You heard Laurie say she has coonhounds, too. She’ll take good care of them.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Rachel turned up the volume of the island music playing on the radio, closed her eyes and thought about how much fun their Key West reunion would be. They were all packed and ready for their early morning departure. It would have been more relaxing if their new neighbors hadn’t planned their welcome party tonight, but maybe it wouldn’t last too late.

Home after the party, getting ready for bed, Mark said, “I don’t know why we should bother going to the Keys. This island has everything we need. Met lots of great people tonight.”

“We promised our friends we’d meet them in Key West. It will be fun, and when we get back we can concentrate on finishing our unpacking and settling in. Hey, did you hear Mr. New York talking about the so-called relentlessness of nature here? Snakes, alligators and sharks, oh my! Why did he move here?”

“Who knows? Did you hear Brian talking about raccoons in his attic?”

“No! Should we worry?”

“I don’t think so. There aren’t any limbs close enough to the house.”

They agreed to get up by 4:30 to be ready to leave the house just after sunrise for their early flight.

Rachel woke up at 4:20. It seemed darker than usual; must not be a moon out tonight, she guessed, as she flipped on the bathroom light. Rustling and screeching sounds outside as she was washing her hands led her to the window. She wasn’t surprised to see raccoons; she had glimpsed gangs of them running down the road on a few previous nights.

Tonight was different.

Instead of running along the road, hordes of them were coming straight at the house. Most scampered up the live oak tree in the center of the vacant lot next door, at least one on every limb. The tree’s branches were lengthening toward the house as the animals ran along them, the masked beasts on the ground were leaping at the wall, and the next sound she heard was her own scream as she was knocked to the floor.

Kicking her legs and swinging her arms as she fought against at least two dozen little hands holding her down, Rachel kept calling for Mark. Her voice was drowned out by all the chittering and growling; how many were there? She couldn’t understand how Mark was sleeping through all the noise. She heard her nightshirt rip and felt her legs scrape the tile floor as the hands dragged her toward the bathtub. “Mark! Mark, wake up! Help me!” She screamed again when she saw the plug set over the drain and the faucet knobs turn.

What? Her eyes were open? Couldn’t be. No, they were clamped shut; that had to be why she couldn’t see the raccoons. But she saw the water turn on; she saw it running. The screeching hadn’t stopped and now, eyes wide open, she felt the unseen hands lifting her shoulders into the tub.

“What’s all the commotion?”

Finally, Mark was awake and standing in the bathroom doorway.

“Fucking raccoons are going to drown me!” Rachel panted out the words.

“What raccoons? I don’t see any . . .” Mark’s elbow hit the light switch as dozens of hands pushed him into the wall. Scores of glowing eyes pierced the newly darkened room.

“Pull the shower lever,” Mark yelled.

As Rachel freed one arm from the invisible raccoons and reached for the lever, Mark leapt to the tub and snatched the shower hose. The eyes retreated as Mark used one hand to shoot water at them. With the other hand he helped Rachel off the floor. Throwing the shower nozzle at the last sets of eyes, he pulled Rachel out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

The two of them had collapsed onto the bedroom floor and were gasping for air when the phone rang. Rachel’s “hello” was unintelligible.

It was Laurie, from the dog kennel. “I’m so, so sorry, it’s never happened before.” The dogs had escaped.

As Mark and Rachel threw on whatever clothes were within reach, they started to hear scratching and thumping noises coming from the bathroom. “Oh my god, Mark! They’re back!”

“Come on, Rachel. Let’s get out of here and go find our dogs. Shut all the doors. Maybe they won’t trash the whole house.”

They flew down the stairs. Mark flung open the front door and Rachel crashed into him when he stalled on the threshold. The entire front porch was throbbing with the movement of hundreds of masked water snakes winding around the railings and slithering up the steps.

“Holy shit! What are those? They aren’t supposed to be here!” He caught Rachel just before her knees went out from under her. The earth quaked before he had a chance to slam the door.

Fighting to keep their balance and deafened by a noise like the baying of a thousand hounds, they watched with their mouths agape as multitudes of snakes and raccoons darted away in every direction and vanished.

Trembling, trying to process what had happened, they could do nothing but laugh when their two coonhounds zoomed up the stairs with their tails wagging, knocked them down and nuzzled their faces.

“Oh my god, you ran away! I can’t believe you found your way back and saved us.”

“Guess what, dogs. We missed our plane. You don’t have to go back to the kennel.”

Rachel would have sworn on a stack of Bibles one of the dogs winked and said, “That was the plan, ma’am. We’re never going back to any kennel.”

Masked and Relentless - 2024 version

Mark steered the Jeep away from the Pet Resort. Ever since rescuing the two Treeing Walker Coonhounds 10 years ago, Mark and Rachel Green had regularly boarded them. They’d just moved from upstate New York to Georgia, and this would be Grania’s and Tristan’s first stay at the Savannah Pet Resort.  “Do you think they’ll be OK?” Rachel asked.

“They’ll be fine,” Mark said.  

They had time to drop by a neighborhood party.  At home afterward, finishing their preparations for an early morning departure, Rachel asked Mark if he’d heard the guest from up north yammering about “the relentlessness of nature” down south.  “Snakes, alligators and sharks, oh my!  And beware of raccoons in the attic!”

They agreed to get up by 4:30 am.

Rachel awoke at 4:18.  She switched on the bathroom light.  Rustling and screeching sounds outside led her to the window. She wasn’t surprised to see raccoons.  From the same window, she had previously glimpsed gangs of them running down the road.

Tonight was different.

Hordes of masked beasts scampered up the live oak tree in the center of the vacant lot next door, until every limb was occupied by at least one.  All of the tree’s branches grew toward the house, bringing the animals closer.  Other marauders on the ground twenty feet below leapt and crashed against the window.

Rachel willed her eyes to open.  Surely this was a dream, brought on by the party chit-chat.

The next sound she heard was her own scream as she was knocked to the floor. 

She kicked and threw punches, to no avail. At least two dozen little hands she couldn’t see held her down.  All the chittering and growling muffled her cries for Mark. How many were there? How was Mark sleeping through all the noise?  Her nightshirt ripped. Her legs scraped the tile floor as the hands dragged her toward the bathtub.

She screamed again when she saw the plug move over the drain and the faucet knobs turn.  The screeching intensified.  The unseen hands lifted her shoulders into the tub.

“What’s all the commotion?”

Finally, Mark was awake  He lurked in the bathroom doorway.

“Fucking raccoons are trying to drown me!” Rachel panted out the words.

“What raccoons? I don’t see any—”

An invisible force pushed Mark into the wall. His elbow hit the light switch.  Scores of glowing eyes pierced the newly darkened room.

“Pull the shower lever,” Mark yelled.

Rachel freed one arm and reached for the lever.  Mark leapt to the tub and snatched the shower hose. The force of the water halted the attack. Mark threw the shower nozzle at the last sets of eyes.  He pulled Rachel out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

They collapsed and gasped for air. 

The phone rang.

“The dogs have escaped,” said Laurie from the Pet Resort.  “Can you come help us search?”

Mark and Rachel threw on whatever clothes were within reach and flew down the stairs. Mark flung open the front door. Rachel crashed into him when he stalled on the threshold. The entire front porch throbbed with the movement of hundreds of masked water snakes. They wound around the railings and slithered up the steps.  Mark caught Rachel just before her knees went out from under her. 

The earth quaked.  Multitudes of snakes and raccoons darted away in every direction and vanished, chased by the sound of a thousand baying hounds.

Trembling, Mark and Rachel stood in stunned silence.  Grania and Tristan zoomed up the stairs, tails wagging.  Mark checked his watch.  Too late to catch their plane.  “I’ll call Laurie,” he said. “and tell her the hounds are safe and the trip’s off, so they won’t be going back to the kennel.”

Rachel would have sworn on a stack of Bibles Grania winked, and a lone raccoon under the steps winked back.