Killing My Darlings
I've finally typed THE END, and really meant it. Along the way, I killed many . . . um, words.
THE END.
Those are the words every author is thrilled to write. Those words motivate and give us something to strive towards. They are, after all, the dream. They are the goal. They hard won words containing the embodiment of achievement and intention. Typing them indicates you have reached your destination.
Is it really THE END (with capital letters)?
My current work in progress, FOREWARNED, is a paranormal thriller about a teenager who doesn’t realize she has a gift. She struggles to understand it, hides it from her friends, and feels like a freak for the majority of the book. Here’s the pitch: The summer of ’76 at Lake Carlson was beautiful new friends, drinking and drugs for 15-year-old Daphne. But when one of them turns the partying into a deadly game, she must follow her intuition to save a life.
As a reader, you may well guess what the END of this book looks like. It will have a satisfying ending that ties up all loose ends and helps Dahne come to terms with her gift. Getting there is not another story, it’s THE story.
Two years ago, I wrote THE END of FOREWARNED. Or I thought I did. The trouble was, all the words leading to it didn’t really illuminate the path for readers. It was wordy and confusing. It was convoluted and pointed to too many things. In short, it had developmental problems.
Boy oh boy did it need editing.
I’ve learned that writing a book is sometimes not an easy process for me.
I had to kill many darlings along the way. And in the next two weeks, I’m going to share two of my dearest, The Prologue, and The Epilogue of FOREWARNED. They were hardest for me to cut because I’d fallen in love with the writing. (Writers take note: Never fall so deeply in love with your words that you stop seeing what’s best for the story.)
First, the prologue. Beta readers loved it! I adored it! Ultimately, it gave too much away.
PROLOGUE:
Lake Carlson looked like black oil. Like it would suck you under and kill you if you let it. It almost killed me.
This summer everything that happened in Carlson, Indiana had led up to this moment. When rescuers pulled me out of the water and gave me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, I choked as my lungs ejected lake water. Though it was the first day of August, crisp, cool air slapped me awake. Indeed, something was distinctly different. My chest expanded with air, as if I’d just been born. My sixth sense was alive.
The feel of slippery lake weed remained on my skin—the lingering ghost of a memory. I huddled and shivered under the musty blanket, as the Lake Patrol boat rocked back and forth in high, rough waves. Nearby, boats motored slowly, crisscrossing in and out of spotlight beams. Red and white disco strobes of police cars lit the sides of darkened houses on shore. The inevitable sunrise lightened the black sky as curious, sleepy residents emerged from their lavish summer homes. In their yards, trees leaned toward the water, as if they were drawn into the search with the police.
Though the sun hadn’t fully risen, I could see clearly. I wasn’t a freak. I hadn’t imagined anything. My premonitions about tonight were as real as the rough, heavy wool blanket over my shoulders.
Shivers shook me, rattling my teeth like metal disks on a tambourine. I heard music in the hum of the boat engines circling the area. Violins and voices harmonized somber chords. Mozart’s Requiem mass filled my head. A death mass. And a chorus of tears slid down my wet cheeks.
“Daphne?” An officer touched my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
My throat closed on the answer. Sad? Angry? All these things and more. I knew more than I’d told them. I pulled the scratchy blanket tightly to my chest.
“We’ll have the EMT on shore check your vitals,” the officer said. “If you’re feeling okay, the police will need to ask you some questions.”
What could I tell them? I hadn’t been there when it happened. But I knew every detail weeks before. The forewarning came to me as easily as C major scale. As easily as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
And I’d ignored the signs until it was way too late.
Behind the trees the blood-red early-morning sky promised death. Just like all my premonitions.
I sent FOREWARNED to a copy editor today. If you like the concept for this book, I promise you will see it on bookshelves in 2025.
Next week, I”ll share the last words I killed in FOREWARNED, the Epilogue
Thanks so much for reading!
Sounds like a great concept. Reminds me of Carrie. But updated and with a different twist.
Be forewarned that I am hooked already.