Learning to Let Go...

... is the hardest of all a writer's lessons. I, above all... as we... ahem... all know, is worse than most. Writing way, way, way round the houses in order to purloin what I perceive to be the best way of expressing myself. Psht to brevity!

And this is where I came unstuck. Case in point, the 122 word paragraph on page 5 of my opening chapter (and a good indication of my wordiness):

The circular wall shifts as the words continue to wriggle across the page. The rows of books revolve like some ancient mechanism. One row clockwise, the next anti-clockwise, until all are in motion. They stop, one column breaks at the centre and the upper half rises up through the fog, one book length, to reveal the bare wall behind. The rows revolve a second time, stopping briefly to allow the top-half of another column to slide down into the gap. Two… three… four more times, revolving and separating, sliding and converging. The brick-books reorder themselves like a cylindrical sliding puzzle until all halt and a gap, the width of two books, comes to a stop before the great book and its pedestal.

A week of revision, of those 5 pages, has whittled just over 40 words from the paragraph, down to 77:

The circular wall shifts now, as the words writhe across the page. The rows of books revolve like some ancient mechanism and the columns slide up and down through the fog. As the books reorder themselves the ceiling begins to ripple and roll and two book-shaped spaces are revealed, showing the bare stonework of the wall behind. The spaces drop down through the books like a sliding puzzle until they are positioned in front of the pedestal.

Here's how the sentences match up, original against the new:

1. The circular wall shifts as the words continue to wriggle across the page.
   
   The circular wall shifts now, as the words writhe across the page.

2. The rows of books revolve like some ancient mechanism. One row clockwise, the next anti-clockwise, until all are in motion.
   
   The rows of books revolve like some ancient mechanism and the columns slide up and down through the fog.

3. They stop, one column breaks at the centre and the upper half rises up through the fog, one book length, to reveal the bare wall behind.
   
   As the books reorder themselves the ceiling begins to ripple and roll and two book-shaped spaces are revealed, showing the bare stonework of the wall behind.

4. The rows revolve a second time, stopping briefly to allow the top-half of another column to slide down into the gap.

5. Two… three… four more times, revolving and separating, sliding and converging.

6. The brick-books reorder themselves like a cylindrical sliding puzzle until all halt and a gap, the width of two books, comes to a stop before the great book and its pedestal.
   
   The spaces drop down through the books like a sliding puzzle until they are positioned in front of the pedestal.

I'm not saying it's perfect - though at the present time I think it is :) - but to reduce confusion and lower the possibility that the reader will grow bored of watching the walls move rather than relate to a person in distress, losing two sentences is a good start.

Also, this paragraph is important - the books, their appearance, and the reordering - to later understanding. I'm not just stopping to describe the sunset here.