In which I go completely crazy and re-write my entire book

Thursday, February 03, 2011

Okay, so many of y'all know that I'm writing a book. I was almost halfway done with it. 

A total of approximately 22,100 words. That's a lot of words. 

And then, it went downhill. I had recently been reading Agatha Christie books, and that was affecting my writing. How many of you have read any Agatha Christie books? You may or may not know that they are intense murder-mystery books. Usually, the plot is about a rich, well-know person being murdered, and one of the detectives solves the case. And my book was headed in that direction.

Instead of going the way it was meant to go, I was writing it the way I wanted it to go - at the time. The main character, Destiny Blair's father was shot at. Surprise, surprise. And then Destiny wanted to figure out who'd done it. Sounds familiar, doens't it?

And so, as I am writing, my lovely older sister reads it. And notices the change in content. From light and lovely, to 'oooh!', to, sadness. 
Turns out, this sister is writing a book based on sadness too.
But her book captures that sadness much better than I ever could - not that I won't do sadness, but I do a different kind of sadness.

I stopped right where I was, gave writing a pause for a day, and thought out a plot. And then, not wanting to completely destroy my previous works, I opened a new document, wrote a warning on the first page, copied and pasted a very few little parts from the previous draft, and began writing.

And what do you know? 

It is a lot better now.

Care to read the prologue to Forever Your Destiny?
I felt as though I was wasting my day, and I was, but honestly, I couldn’t think of anything to do, no matter how hard I thought. I paced the living room floor over and over, until my sister Elizabeth reprimanded me.  “Destiny, you will wear the carpet thin! Go do something productive,” she said, placing her long, slender hands on her hips firmly. Her eyes sparkled, and through her pretended anger, I could see sisterly love. The carpet wasn’t the real problem – my father was quite wealthy, and could buy a new one at the snap of a finger. What Elizabeth was really concerned about was being productive. Elizabeth is always acting like the mother to Marianne and me, and we needed the chiding at times. For example, on my twelfth birthday, I got Sense and Sensibility. We both had the idea that we could watch the movie that night, and we would have popcorn, and it would be so fun. So the night was set. I put in the disc, Marianne popped some microwaveable popcorn, and we sat down to watch the movie. After about an hour and forty five minutes, we were sitting on the edge of our seats, just waiting for Marianne Dashwood to get better. Ironic how there was a Marianne in that story, just like my dear sister. When the movie was over, we were so happy about how it turned out, but we were  also jittery from the whopping three bags of popcorn we had eaten (just the two of us). We waltzed up the stairs, laughing, cracking the silliest jokes that we didn’t even laugh about in the morning, until Elizabeth came out of her bedroom. “You two sillies better get in bed before Momma comes up and disciplines you. You two both know how much she disagrees with staying up late!” So Marianne and I went to bed, and on the way we found out that it was 11:15 PM. Oops, we had joked the next morning. Concluding from that, you realize, that if I wasted much more time today, Elizabeth would scold again. And she would probably be right, too. Determined not to waste my day, I slowly trudged up the great set of long, wide, carpeted stairs to my bedroom. When I entered the room, the smell of sweet perfume, the breezes coming in through the open window, and the crisp bed coverlets lying in a neat, folded pile at the foot of my bed, helped me see the beauty in the droll day. I looked over at my little mahogany writing desk. “That’s it!” I thought. “Why not write a little?” I skipped over to the desk, and began writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote, until my hands were sore, yet I still kept writing. What else could I do? Dinner was not for a little while, and writing, though not my best skill, was a respite from pacing. Through my writing, though, my mind was elsewhere, dreaming about another land, far off in the distance. Before I knew it, I had stopped writing, and was looking out the window into the crisp air. Spring was almost here…My mind wandered off.  After much thought, I finally decided I would write as much as possible for fifteen minutes, and then get prepared for dinner. My pen pressed forcefully against the paper, as I scribbled a few sentences, trying to write something useful. But it was to no avail. What good is writing, when you have no topic? I wrote a few words on the Titanic, but the subject bored me – I never was one for historical fiction. When trying to write science fiction, I quit soon enough, and made no effort to try again. I wanted to write real fiction, complete with elves, dwarves, and different worlds, but when writing the first paragraph, I knew it wasn’t ‘me’. It sounded too much like C. S. Lewis, but yet it was nowhere near as good. Finally, I gave up, and wrote the genre I knew best: young adult.  I tried not to look at the clock – and succeeded – so that I wouldn’t know that it was time to go to dinner. I didn’t want to give up my writing with having written nothing useful. But finally, I pulled my eyes from the page, and looked at the clock.  To my great surprise and dismay, the pink hands of my alarm clock read six forty-five! How could time have passed so briefly?  “I must be dreaming.  Or maybe the clock is broken.” I said out loud. But as I checked every knob and button in the little plastic fixture, I noted that nothing was out of place. It was really, truly, six forty-five. But glancing at the timepiece one last time, I realized that I must really hurry, for the clock’s every tick seemed to tell me I was late.  I pulled a box from the top shelf of my wardrobe, and began searching for that sapphire-colored ribbon that I knew would match my nail polish perfectly. I planned to redo my hair before I went to dinner. Something seemed to tell me that I would need to look nice.  “Ah, here it is.” I sighed when I’d found it. As I formed my black, curly hair into a simple bun, I began to think. My mother wanted me to get married soon, for I was eighteen years old. But we were living in modern times! What was the point of getting married so young, when you had a good idea of what you wanted to do as a career? I knew I would be a dancer. Shaking my head in distaste, I looked in the mirror.  My long, black curls were spun into a slightly messy bun, and already, there were little curls popping out of the twist. The sapphire ribbon was tied in a bow around it, and I had to admit, the blue made a wonderful contrast with the black. But before I skipped out of the room, I checked the clock. Seven o’ three. Great. My parents were always punctual, and disliked my being late. Dinner started at seven. I walked quickly out the room, trying my best not to run. After spending all that time on my hair, I didn’t want to mess it up. When I reached the dinning room, instead of meeting the four faces of my family members, there were eight faces, four of them unrecognizable to me.  – Destiny Blair

This part is from Destiny's perspective, but the rest of the book is narrated by me. :)

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: All material above belongs to me, and to me only. It is copyrighted under federal law. That means that you will get in trouble with the law if you steal it. Trust me, I *will* find out. :)


  1. Wow! It is great!A twist of modern and old.

  2. It is great but I would put it in an easier font because I could hardly read it due to the colour, size and lack of breaks in writing.

    1. Thanks for the input! I appreciate it. :)


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