I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen. The prose was about what one would expect from an inexperienced writer. The story flowed but had some classic problems. The characters were mostly flat with a few pleasant outbursts of depth. Problems aside, the themes were strong and everyone who read the story agreed that there was something special happening in the story.
So, having just spent next to a year writing this novel, I sat down and began the painful and arduous job of rewriting. I dissected the book, chapter by chapter, using a spreadsheet to help me organize each plot line, each character arc and everything else I felt like tracking. As the story evolved in my spreadsheet I rewrote sections to allow for smoother transitions and more logical progression of story elements. At last, I opened a brand new text file and I began to write. Even though I'd already rewritten large sections of the story, the writing was uneven. Besides, I've found it more helpful to begin with a new canvas. As I worked through the rewrite I referenced back to my notes and previously rewritten sections.
Halfway through this rewrite I hit a wall. It wasn't writers block, but I knew I couldn't move forward with the rewrite until I came to terms with a word that had been nagging at the back of my mind for some time: Sequel.
Half formed ideas had been playing in the dark recesses of my mind for the better part of six months and I couldn't move forward any more until I gave the ideas a genuine appraisal. I saved my rewrite and put it aside while at the same time I opened up a new text file. At this point in time I was a much more instinctual writer when it came to making characters so I did a few free writing sessions to get some voices on the page. The first voice (or character) I wrote about was familiar, it was the main character from the first book. No surprise there. His voice was older, more weathered and sadder but it was still him. The second voice that coalesced on the page was a voice that had dominated those half formed ideas in the back of my mind. He didn't have a name. That puzzled me. I kept writing and a small, scared boy with amazing abilities (but no memories) took shape. He reminded me of certain aspects of myself when I was younger (memory loss excluded). I drafted an outline, promising the scared little boy that I'd come back for him and then returned to my rewrite.
With the sequel in mind, I laid the groundwork in the first book to flow into the second. I planted hints and suggestions and in the end (the end of the book that is) I was able to take a turn I always felt was right but could never seem to get to before.
The rewrite was still not perfect but after more than a year working on it I needed a break. The sequel practically wrote itself. Page after page flowed out of me. By this time I'd learned to plan ahead and had the story plotted out with all the sub plots and character arcs laid out. I hinted at future events, sowed secrets and resolved issues from the first book. I was almost done, only one or two chapters from the end. I opened a new text file. This wasn't uncommon, I was always writing short stories to keep me going and break up the monotony of working on only one project at a time. But as I wrote, a beautifully visual opening with intrigue and suspense, I found that this was not an isolated short story. In fact this wasn't a short story at all but the beginning of a third novel. I had a trilogy. This was upsetting because I'd been planning on wrapping things up at the end of book two. But there in front of me on the page was that nameless, scared little boy, now a grown man, and who was I to argue.
I finished book two as I had originally planned; it just felt right that way. There were still a few questions left unanswered (a good book, in my estimation, always leaves a few questions for the reader at the end) and I figured I could use those as a tie in for the third book. At this time in my life I was seventeen, had a part time job at an Elementary School mentoring kids, and I was going to school year round at Utah State University taking eighteen credits a semester trying to get my BS in physics before my twentieth birthday. Needless to say, I was busy. I put writing on hold for a bit and focused on my studies.
By my eighteenth birthday it was apparent that my breakneck pace in academia was going to kill me. I'd been sick for several months and decided that, for the good of everyone involved, I would slow down. I settled into my new pace and my health stabilized. By this time I'd forgotten about the third book. In fact, I hadn't written much of anything for some time. I enrolled in a writing class and got my creative juices flowing. As I worked on my writing assignments I would periodically skim through old stories that I'd written, seeking inspiration or fixing problems that I found therein. During one of these forays into my literary past I came across a file titled “Finish Later_Book Three”. Curious, I opened it and read the opening to the final book in my trilogy with new eyes. The sad boy had grown up while I'd been away and he was ready for his story to be finished.
Due to external circumstances, I only had until the end of the year to finish the book. Otherwise I'd have to wait another two years before returning to it. I wrote feverishly. I'd write a page or two, then the sad little boy would shake his head and I'd have to rewrite it. After a while I got back into the swing of things and I was cranking out ten pages a day. At the same time I churned out two more drafts on both the first and second books. That year is still my most creative year.
At last, the sad little boy smiled, nodded his thanks to me, and walked back into the darkness from whence he'd come. During the rewrites of the first two books I'd planted many more plot lines, strengthened characters and otherwise made the trilogy a singular whole. I put a few polishing touches on the third book before I took my two year sabbatical.
Since then I've continued to polish and edit the trilogy. I've lost count of how many more drafts I've done but the elements that I planted early on, the plotting and foreshadowing from those years ago, have continued to grow and bare fruit, without which I doubt the story would have survived.
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