In the course of the last few weeks I’ve (a). removed over 8000 words from Fathom — but they were sucky words, so it’s okay, (b). chopped up the chapters into more semi-even chunks and shuffled a few around for better narrative balance, (c). composed about 6200 new words, and (d). figured out that the beginning needed roughly as much reworking as the ending did … or, does. Well, let us say, “Did, and now still does — only not as much as it did before.”
I don’t suppose I’m making much sense. The short version is this: Draft One is dead. Long live Draft Two … just as soon as I can finish going over it one last time.* I told my marvelous editor that I’d have it back to her by the end of the month, and so I shall. But it’s going to be a squeaker.
* Oh, who am I kidding? Probably two more times before I’ve psyched myself into believing that Liz won’t be tempted to slit her wrists upon receiving it. Truth is, I totally deserved a Hideous-Killy-Death-O-Gram for subjecting that poor woman to Draft One. Whatever she’s getting paid to read my early drafts, it’s almost certainly not enough.