To give you guys an idea of what I’m talking about, here are the opening paragraphs for both the new and old versions of Quiver. (A caveat: The formatting is probably going to be wonky. For some reason, WordPress doesn’t like me posting in info from other programs, like Word. Ah, well): 

NEW VERSION

 I never set out to be an outlaw.

As Gwendolyn Frost, my days and nights were filled with the duties and responsibilities of any young duchess of my wealth and station.

I never meant to become a vigilante, a ruffian, a fiend. Cheered by some, cursed by others, hunted by many. I never meant to rescue a hero, take down a tyrant, save a kingdom.

It just sort of . . . happened.

And it all started, innocently enough, deep in the forest with a simple bow and a quiver full of arrows . . .

OLD VERSION“You’re going to miss.”

The gruff voice sounded close to my left ear. Footsteps smacked on the cobblestones behind me, and a body leaned forward, brushing against my own.

“And miss badly,” the flat tone continued in my right ear.

I blocked out the voice. Blocked out the constant scuff of footsteps circling around me, the gloomy words of doom, the warm breath tickling my ears and nose with its sharp flavor of liver and onions. I blocked it all out until there was nothing left but the smooth bow in my hands and the small red smear of the target in the distance.

I lifted the bow to my shoulder, notched the arrow, and drew back the string with one fluid movement. A comforting motion, as familiar to me as a waltz or reel might be to any other young lady of my station.

“You’re going to miss,” the voice repeated, but it was a mere murmur now, a buzzing bee in the background of my mind.

My green eyes narrowed as I studied the target, using the faint cool spark of magic that I possessed to pull it into focus, until the red smear filled my vision with crystal clarity. A breeze gusted through the stone courtyard, barely a whisper against my cheek, but I adjusted my aim accordingly. My fingers rested on the bowstring the way a musician’s might on a cherished violin.

“You’re going to miss—”

I let go.

The arrow sliced through the air, a flashing silver blur, before hitting the target a hundred yards in front of me. Dead center.

So what do you think? Good, bad, indifferent? Craptastic all the way around? Share in the comments.