I thought it would be a nightmare. Something akin to ripping my skin off. How would I possibly tear apart something I had created, something that had made my heart swell with joy once I reached the final word?
No way. I can’t destroy my precious story. Rewrite? Never.
I’m doing it now.
Driving home from work one day, a brilliant stroke of inspiration smacked me in the brain. It was undeniable, insistent. Though I hated the idea of majorly changing anything, the urge persisted. And since computers make it so easy to create a new file, I pushed my fear aside and surrendered. (Save As is my friend.)
It started as a simplification of the beginning where I finally had to admit that there was too much going on. Then, I had another thought. Wouldn’t my villain be much more interesting if…? And then another idea that made a scene work much more emotionally than it had originally.
Slowly, I’ve realized that rewriting isn’t tearing my story apart. It’s metamorphosis or evolution. It’s growth, a honed blade. The changes make my story stronger, sharper. I’m falling in love with characters all over again, and more deeply. Do I remove things? Yes. Do I add? Yes.
Am I loving it? Surprisingly so.