Rewriting

So, I'm in the re-write stage of my WIP. Some days this is just frustrating, because what I really want to be doing is making new story, but I'm stuck making an "old" story better. Other days, I find myself relieved to get to fix bad writing. It's sort of like sweeping my carpeted stairs. I hate doing it, I put it off for weeks, but when I do it--when they're clean, I wonder why I didn't realize earlier what a difference it would make to clean them up. 


(I would use mopping my floors as an analogy here, but I'm currently in the midst of a frustrating can't-find-soap-that-doesn't-leave-a-film-on-my-wood-floor experience, so the analogy would just fail miserably.)


But as a taste, here's two paragraphs--before and after. I'd be interested to know what you think of the difference three re-writes make. 

Before:

Devyn's band left with the moonrise, dropping into the darkness below the plateau before lifting far above the camp. Sabas met the sky with eagerness as they turned toward the moon, swollen and red with its own new life. His wings cut through the air in heavy strokes, the deep whump of their motion reverberating through Devyn's bones. Reaching up, he adjusted the leather goggles Captain had brought back from a recent trip to the market. Devyn wasn't sure if he liked the goggles, but fiddling with them served as a distraction from the voice in his head. It was a familiar voice, one he attributed to his father, though he wasn't sure any more if that was true or just a story that gave him comfort.

"Red moon," it said, quietly. "Blood will be shed this night. Blood will be shed."

After:

The moon hovered above the black horizon, swollen and red with new life against the ash grey sky. Sabas rose into the sky eagerly, his muscles tight with anticipation. His wings cut through the hot air in heavy strokes, their beat pulsing through Devyn like a heartbeat. Devyn closed his eyes and let the rush of air run fingers through his hair and over his body, wishing it could pull away the voice in his mind, too. His father's voice, he had always thought, though he wasn't sure, anymore, if it or he just wanted it to be. Either way, he didn't like what it was saying tonight.

"Red moon," it was whispering, over and over. "Blood will be shed this night. Blood will be shed."

I find it interesting that, frequently, re-writing consists greatly of removing words. Trimming the fat, I guess--saying more with less. I think I managed that here but, as I said, I'd be interested in your thoughts. Meanwhile, I'm going to bed. 

After I finish sweeping my stairs.