I have completed the draft of my next Hannibal Jones novel,
currently titled The Wrong Time. Or at least I think I have. But then, I thought
it was finished two weeks ago.
I typed “The End” and declared victory then. The story worked, the
characters worked, and after three thorough rewrites I was happy with the prose.
I ran spell checks and grammar checks. I sent the book to first readers. Done.
Then I started seeing this scene in the book. It was one of those bridging
scenes, like connective tissue, to get the reader from one place in the plot to
another. There was movement, there was dialog and the setting was an easy
wraparound. But it kept appearing in my mind, playing over and over like a slice
of a movie.
Then my brain started changing the scene. Reformatting it.
Characters doing and saying different things. Seeing it from different camera
angles. I had to accept that my mind was still writing. I was still in that
book. But why?
Then I realized that part of the dialog included Hannibal being
told something important. And there it was. The scene was wrong because it was
lazy. Hannibal was told something he should have seen for himself and, by
extension, the reader should have seen.
It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t broken. It just wasn’t as good as it
could have been. It was weak. It didn’t flow with the rest of the book. Improvement
would mean cutting that scene and writing a new one. That necessitated
rewriting the previous scene, leading up to the one being rewritten. It called
for reimagining the events that took place that day in three characters lives. It
changed their experiences and memories of that day. It rippled through dialog
and thoughts expressed later in the book.
So, I’ve done all of that rewriting and rethinking. And now the
book is really, truly finished.
I think.