@cecicastor do you want the story put here or are you in chat so I can show you first?

I haven't butchered it and I'm grateful for the chance to show you how I work.

Fiona
Bitter cold nipped at Fiona's tear-streaked face; she felt neither that nor the tremors of her body shaking with grief, not the frigid air. She gazed, unseeing at her mother's coffin. The area in her chest surrounding her heart felt like physical pressure, as though it would break into tiny pieces at any moment. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders as her brother Andre whispered what should have been comforting words to her, but she couldn’t retain or decipher them.

The same with the words that Father Mulligan spoke over the ornately carved oak casket. The sermon was what Father chose – mother's taste had been more simple, elegant. As always, Philippe de Chardonnay, disregarding anyone that expressed a different opinion to his, had to have the final say.

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**I expanded these paragraphs because I felt there was so much more that could be said about ‘Fiona’ and her grief for her mother and the relationships with her brother and her father.**

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The single long-stemmed white rose held tight in her fist, the thorns piercing through her gloves; she’d feel those later. Andre steered her towards the coffin. She looked up at him; he gave an encouraging smile and he nodded, it was time.

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**The human relationship with grief is special – everyone has felt it at some time or another and therefore, it’s the perfect opportunity for the writer to ‘hook’ their readers (sorry… cynical of me, I know).**

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Fiona placed the rose on the casket, the leaves trembling as though a breeze had sprung up. She kept her hand on the oak while she whispered one final farewell to the only person who really understood her.

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**Describing everyday items in a different way helps to kick the reader’s brain into gear so they can not only read what’s happening, but ‘see’ it too – Show, don’t tell’.**

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Uncle Noel and Andre held her on either side and guided her to the waiting limo. She didn't know how long she had been standing there, staring blindly at the grave, not quite believing. She looked up, the graveyard had emptied in the time she’d stood as sentinel to the graveside. 

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**If you think about what you’ve written and it makes you feel the same emotion the characters are feeling, you’ve nailed it. It doesn’t happen on the first draft very often.**

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Sandwiched between Uncle Noel and Auntie *Tasha, who grasped her hand tightly, Fiona leaned back into the seat, allowing grief to wash over her again. Closing her eyes so she didn’t have to look at her father sitting opposite her, Andre murmured, “It’ll be over soon, Fi.”
She didn’t even want to think about the reception for close family and friends Father had arranged at her uncle’s hotel. 

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**You have to try to put yourself in that car and *know* the characters, how they’d be reacting to the events and each other. Then you have to describe that to your readers so they can be there with you.**

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Auntie babbled on about anything that popped into her head. Uncle Noel drummed his fingers against the door and Andre fidgeted on his seat.

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**We all know someone like this, the trick is writing enough to jog that memory, but not too much as to imprint *your* details too heavily onto that character, otherwise the connection is lost between the character and the reader.**

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Phillipe shifted in his seat and leaned forward a little. “For God's sake, *(Anastasia)! Can't you shut up for five minutes?” he barked. 

“She's just trying to break the heaviness of the ride, Philippe. She doesn't mean anything by it,” Uncle Noel said, coming to her defence as he did with everyone, whether they needed it or not. Anastasia blushed and bit her bottom lip.

Andre withdrew into himself, his frown deepened, his discomfort increasing as the ride wore on and Fiona noticed; she was concerned but knew better than to say anything in front of Father.

Father’s patience for either of them wore thin faster than usual, lately. Fiona considered perhaps she should be more charitable in her feelings toward him. He’d just lost his wife, the love of his life, or so he professed. 

The drive continued in stony silence.

The limo drive had trouble maneuvering through hotel parking lot because of the number of vehicles already there. Through the restaurant windows they could see the crowd, the room buzzed with a full attendance.

Father insisted on a receiving line to speak with the guests. Fiona, like her mother, would have preferred something less formal. Father did enjoy any excuse for pomp and circumstance. And a drink or two...

‘Thank goodness Granddad isn't here to witness this,’ Fiona thought as she watched her father's panache for the grandiose. Granddad would have found it difficult to stomach, he would have preferred to keep his beloved daughter's funeral a more subdued family matter.

Held in the small banquet room at the back of the hotel, the most intimate gathering place that Auntie could arrange that met with Father's approval, it still meant passing through the main lobby and the restaurant of the hotel to the reception.

The buzz of conversation and clattering dishes hushed as they passed. Fiona hated the urgent whispers behind raised hands.

The family would be the fodder of the local gossips for the next year or so, until some other juicy tidbit of gossip came along. One of the dubious perks of coming from a well-to-do family in a small community with too much time on its hands. She should be used to it by now, given the positions her parents held in the community.

A large ornate gilded frame rested against a wobbly wooden stand positioned on the right side of the worn double doors leading into the reception room. Bouquets of flowers placed on either side with a smaller and rounder arrangement placed in front of the stand. ‘Too large and too gaudy, mother would have loathed them,’ Fiona thought.

In bold print, for all to see, an enlarged copy of the obituary taken from the Nova Scotia Herald had been reproduced. The one she had meticulously avoided reading. It hit her hard, like a physical blow to her stomach. Seeing it in print now, only made the gaping hole in her heart all the more painful.
Tears flowed and Fiona couldn’t stop them even had she wanted to.
**Natasha is the long version of ‘Tasha,’ not Anastasia*

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*I hope you can see what else I’ve done to this. If not, you can ask.*

*These would be recommendations ***ONLY***, not ‘Thou Shalt Do This’*