Most of the regular readers of this blog know about how a book becomes a book: a writer writes it and revises it in her own way. Then she submits it to her editor and often (or, in cases like me, every time) does a round of editor revisions. Then the book goes to the editor for line edits, then production for copy edits, then back to the author to review and make changes, then to production for galleys/proofs, then back to the author for a final read/minor changes, then back to production for printing. For more on the process, you can read this blog I wrote at Romancing the Blog a couple years ago.

For fun, I thought you might like to see the evolution of a scene. Or, rather, a partial scene. I wanted to do the beginning of Chapter Three, where my hero Rafe walks into an occult ritual because the beginning is relatively short, but apparently that was where the copier jammed and I don’t have 20 pages of my proofs. So this is the opening of Chapter Two, ORIGINAL SIN.

WARNING: This will be a long blog! But I hope you’ll learn a bit about the writing and editing process.

January 26, 2010

ORIGINAL SIN
CHAPTER TWO
SCENE ONE (in part)

MY FIRST DRAFT

Moira jolted awake, her breath coming in gasps, her heart racing. The nightmare faded so rapidly that every time she tried to focus on a detail, it disappeared like a wisp of smoke. But the fear that clutched her was real.

It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a vision. She hadn’t been asleep, she’d been meditating, following the advice of Father Philip to block everything worldly out and just listen. How many times had he told her to trust her instincts? So she had focused, trying to learn when Fiona was opening the gateway. But the meditating wasn’t working, it never worked, and she’d fallen asleep. At least that’s what she told herself.

And now it was happening. Where had she gone wrong? She knew the place, but not the day. She should have staked out the site every night. But it had terrified her during the day, and how could she anticipate the night?

The artificial yellow lights outside the cheap motel cast shadows through the slit where the curtains didn’t quite meet, so similar to every other cheap motel room she’d slept in. They blended together Helena to Topeka to Fayette to Hermes to Santa Louisa, and a dozen towns in between. Only now she was in the right place, but she was too late.

Too scared.

She slid out from between the sheets, clothed in a T-shirt and panties. She switched on the desk lamp, pulled on her jeans and tossed the sweat-soaked T-shirt in a plastic bag. No time to shower–she had to get to the coast. Now.

How the fuck was she going to stop Fiona? She had no back-up, few tools, little information. Father Philip hadn’t figured out what the gateway would bring forth, and without that knowledge she might as well be sprinkling holy water on Satan himself. A little sizzle and burn with no staying power.

But she couldn’t let Fiona go through with the ritual. It would end in murder. It always did.

The invisible mark on her neck burned.

Moira pulled a black turtleneck over her head, then a leather coat Rico had given her. Special pockets for special things.

“I’m not a hunter,” she’d told him holding the jacket as if it were on fire.

“No, you’re a huntress,” Rico said. He pushed her chin up. “Despero caveat, mei amica. Despair means no hope, and there’s always hope. Despair lets them in.”

Anger fueled her fear. Despair had no fear, it had already given up. But anger and fear were more volatile emotions that could be used against her. She just didn’t know how to control them.

She grabbed her bag and a opened the door. Something moved. She quickly stepped back into the shadows of her room as she sensed more than saw someone approaching through the dense fog. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it, sweat on her brow. She knew what she had to do to kill a demon; she just hadn’t done it yet. It was extremely difficult outside of a controlled environment–like the monastery–to kill the demon and not the human being it possessed. And even then, survival of the victim or the exorcist was not assured. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience.

There was only so much that intensive training could do. Experienced trumped the classroom every time. But what choice did she have? Fiona was here because Moira made a deadly mistake. A mistake she wouldn’t make again.

REVISED DRAFT

You’ll see that in this final revision, I fleshed out the scene, added more information and layers. Part of this was due to changes in the prologue that were better here, and partly because my editor felt she didn’t understand the backstory early enough, so the beginning (opening 3-4 chapters) were hard to follow. So I moved some things around and better incorporated the backstory. A confused reader is bad!

Moira jolted upright, her breath coming in gasps, her heart racing. The waking nightmare faded so rapidly that every time she tried to focus on a detail, it disappeared like a wisp of smoke. But the fear that clutched her was real.

It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a vision, just like the vision she’d had ten weeks before. But far more vivid than anything she’d ever seen in her head before.

For a long moment, she forgot where she was as she willed her heart to slow, willed herself to regain control over her fear. The motel room was the same as so many that came before it. The smells, the sounds, the yellow lights and worn sheets. The days had rolled into weeks and Moira barely acknowledged the passage of time. They blended together Helena to Denver to Fayette to Hermes to Santa Louisa, and dozens of towns, big and small, in between. Now she was in the right place—but too late.

Too scared.

“Santa Louisa,” she whispered in the dark. She hadn’t lost her mind, amazing.

She’d arrived in the small central California coast town nearly a week ago, and had stayed because she sensed this was it. Her research, and her senses, told her the gateway to hell was right here.

It had been broad daylight when she’d first arrived in Santa Louisa. On the Internet message board she frequented that discussed supernatural phenomena, she’d “met” a teenager who described cliffs that seemed too much like the ones in her vision to be a coincidence. He’d been concerned because a fire had destroyed a house and there’d been odd “things” going on. Because he’d been vague, she’d contacted him—learned his name was Jared Santos—and everything he told her confirmed that these were the cliffs of her vision. She headed to Santa Louisa immediately.

The cliffs—the ruins of the destroyed house–terrified her during the day, frightening images and thoughts flooding her mind.

She’d stood in a place where evil radiated from the ground like heat from a furnace set on high.

Evil surrounded her. Evil didn’t float in the air, it was the air. The earth didn’t smell like earth, it reeked of the dead, of terror, of lost souls clawing through moldy dirt, trying to escape their fate. She’d passed dead birds, rodents, a poor innocent dog as she neared the center of the ruins on the cliffs. Her heart strained, told her to leave, but she looked down, and for a second that seemed to last forever, she saw a river of fire beneath the surface. Felt the heat rising, the soles of her feet burning, and she’d run.

That first night, in the dark, she’d hid in the cypress, waiting, the fear clawing at her but she forced herself to stay, hoping—and fearing–her mother would show.

Fiona hadn’t come, no one had, and the following day Moira had contacted Father Philip, told her what she’d learned about the cliffs. About the fire and the two deaths inside the house. That the house had been completely destroyed was suspicious enough—especially in this weather—but portals could only be opened through human sacrifice.

Father Philip was confident that the coven would act on February first or second, one of the four high sabbats in pagan witchcraft depending on which calendar they were using. More than enough time for Rico to join her, along with other demon hunters under his command, and they’d stake out the cliffs en masse. Father asked her to watch, be diligent, and she had been. Or so she’d thought.

But it was happening now. How could she face her mother and whatever evil she had summoned and defeat it? Alone?

How could she not?

She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that right now—at this very moment—Fiona was on those cliffs finishing what she’d started more than two months before. Two months? Try forty-eight years. Forty-eight hundred years, longer—since the first covens in ancient times. Fiona was the one who was successful.

“Shit,” Moira muttered, “that’s going to go straight to her head.”

She slid out from between the sheets, clothed in a T-shirt and panties. She switched on the desk lamp, pulled on her jeans and tossed the sweat-soaked T-shirt in a plastic bag. She had to get to the cliffs. Now.

How the fuck was she going to stop her mother? She had no back up, few tools, little information to go head to head against Fiona. Father Philip hadn’t figured out what the gateway would bring forth, and without that knowledge she might as well be sprinkling holy water on Satan himself. A little sizzle and burn with no staying power.

But she couldn’t let Fiona go through with the ritual. It would end in murder. It always did.

The invisible mark on her neck burned.

Moira pulled a black turtleneck over her head, then slid into the handmade leather coat Rico had given her. Special pockets for special things.

“I’m not a hunter,” she’d told him holding the jacket as if it were on fire.

“No, you’re a huntress,” her trainer said. Rico pushed her chin up. “Despero caveat, mei amica. Despair lets them in. Despair means no hope, and there’s always hope.”

Anger fueled her fear. Despair had no fear, it had already given up. But anger and fear were more volatile emotions that could be used against her. She didn’t know how to control them, and that lack of control had screwed her big time often enough in the past to force her to stop a minute, breathe deeply, remember that there was more at stake tonight than her life.

If she failed, the covens would continue to grow stronger, more powerful, aided with demons at their side. St. Michael’s Order would be in great peril. One by one, Peter’s brothers-in-arms would die. Horribly. Violently. Painfully.

Move it, Moira. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.

She grabbed her bag and opened the door.

Something—someone–moved.

She quickly stepped back into the shadows of her room as she sensed before she saw the person approaching through the dense fog. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it, sweat on her brow. She knew what she had to do to kill a demon; she just hadn’t done it yet. It was extremely difficult outside of a controlled environment–like the monastery–to kill the demon and not the human being it possessed. And even then, survival of the victim or the exorcist was not assured. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience.

There was only so much that intensive training could do, even with Rico—the best instructor the Order had—in her corner. Experienced trumped the classroom every time. But what choice did she have? Fiona was here because Moira had made a deadly mistake. A mistake she couldn’t make again.

FINAL PRODUCTION DRAFT
(After editorial input and further revisions–you can see that I layered in more detail, cut repetition, tightened parts, and expanded the scene. To cut a step, I went ahead and incorporated the line and copy edits into this draft as well.)

Moira jolted upright, her breath coming in gasps, her heart racing. The nightmare rapidly faded but the terror that clutched her held on tight.

It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a vision, just like the terrible one, she’d had ten weeks before. But this was far more vivid than any she’d ever experienced.

For a long moment, she forgot where she was. She willed her heart to slow, trying to gain mastery over her fear. This morning’s motel room was the same as so many before it. The stale smells, the strange thumps, the yellow lights and thin sheets. Days had rolled into weeks with Moira barely acknowledging the passage of time, blending together Helena and Denver, Fayette and Santa Louisa, and in between dozens of towns, big and small. At last Moira was in the right place.

“Santa Louisa,” she whispered in the dark. The town wasn’t far from the mission massacre Father Philip had told her about. She realised now that she should have headed here directly after the phone conversation. If only she’d known the mountains in eastern Santa Louisa were a mere thirty miles from the Pacific Ocean!

She’d arrived in the picturesque central California coastal town nearly a week ago, and had stayed after acutely sensing this was the place. Her research and her finely-tuned senses told her the gateway to Hell was here.

On the Internet message board she regularly frequented that discussed supernatural phenomena, she’d encountered a teenager who described cliffs in the area that seemed strikingly similar to those in her vision. He’d been concerned because a mysterious fire had just destroyed a local house and there’d been other odd things going on. His name was Jared Santos. Everything he told her confirmed that these were the cliffs of her vision. She’d immediately headed to Santa Louisa.

The cliffs—the ruins of the destroyed house–terrified her even in harsh daylight. Frightening images and thoughts flooded her mind.

She’d stood in a place where evil radiated from the ground like heat from a furnace set on high.

Evil surrounded her. Evil didn’t float in the air, it was the air. The earth didn’t smell like earth, it reeked of the dead, of terror, of lost souls clawing through moldy dirt, desperate to escape their fate. She’d passed dead birds, rodents, a mutilated dog as she neared the center of the ruins on the cliffs. Her heart strained, told her to leave, but she looked down, and for a second that seemed to last forever, she saw a river of fire beneath the surface. She felt the heat rising. The soles of her feet burning, she ran.

That first night, in the dark, she’d hid among the cypress, waiting, the fear gnawing at her. She forced herself to stay, hoping—and fearing–her mother would appear.

Fiona hadn’t come. No one had. The following day, Moira had contacted Father Philip and told him what she’d learned. About the fire and the two deaths inside the house. That the house had been completely destroyed was frightening enough. Even worse, Moira knew that portals like this could be opened only through human sacrifice.

Father asked her to stay on site and watch, to be diligent, and she had been. Or so she’d thought.

Surrounded by energy so evil Moira began to shake, Fiona spoke. Moira could see nothing else, nothing but her mother’s flaming red hair, everything obscured by a smoky curtain that Moira couldn’t penetrate. Dark shapes took form within the curtain, whether human or demon she didn’t know. The gates of hell were opening and Moira was too late.

Dammit, no! She couldn’t be too late. Father was certain Fiona wouldn’t act until the first of February, when the worlds were naturally closer. Moira had agreed, but they were wrong.

It was happening now. How could she face her mother and whatever evil she had summoned and defeat it? Alone?

Yet how could she not?

She sensed beyond a shadow of a doubt that right now—at this very moment—Fiona was on those cliffs finishing what she’d started more than two months before. Two months? Fiona had been seeking immortality her entire forty-eight years, continuing the journey that started with the first covens assembled in ancient times. But Fiona was the first witch to come close.

“Shit,” Moira muttered, “that’s going to go straight to her head.” She couldn’t let her succeed.

She slid from between the worn sheets, clothed in a blue T-shirt and black panties. She switched on the desk lamp, pulled on her jeans, then tossed her sweat-soaked T-shirt in a plastic bag.

How the fuck was she going to stop her mother? She had no backup, few tools, and little information to go head to head against Fiona. Father Philip hadn’t figured out what the gateway would bring forth, and without that knowledge Moira might as well be sprinkling holy water on Satan himself. A mere sizzle within an apocalyptic inferno.

She couldn’t let Fiona go through with the ritual. It would end in murder. It always did.

The mark on her neck burned.

Moira snapped on a bra and pulled a black turtleneck over her head, then slid into the custom made leather jacket Rico had given her. With special pockets for special things.

“I’m not a hunter,” she’d told him, holding the jacket as if it were on fire.

“No, you’re a huntress,” her trainer said. Rico pushed her chin up. “Despero caveat, mei amica. Despair lets them in. Despair means no hope, and there’s always hope.”

Anger fueled her fear, both volatile emotions that could be used against her. She didn’t know how to control them. That lack of control had screwed her big time in the past often enough to force her to pause now and breathe deeply. She remembered that there was more at stake tonight than her life.

If she failed, the covens would grow even stronger, more powerful, aided with demons at their side. St. Michael’s Order would be in great peril. One by one, Peter’s brothers-in-arms would die. Horribly. Violently. Painfully.

Move it, Moira. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.

She grabbed her bag and opened the door.

Outside, something—someone–moved.

She quickly stepped back into the shadows of her room as she sensed before she saw a person approaching through the dense fog. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it, sweat on her brow. Though she’d yet to do it alone, she knew how to stop a demon. It was extremely difficult outside of a controlled environment–like the monastery–to banish the demon and not kill the human being it possessed. And even then, survival of the victim or the exorcist was not assured. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience.

There was only so much that intensive training could do, even with Rico—the best instructor the Order had—in her corner. Experience trumped the classroom every time. But she had no choice at this point. Fiona was here because Moira had made a deadly mistake. A mistake she couldn’t make again.

PAGE PROOFS

Now indulge me one more time–taking the final draft above, which is how it was in the page proofs (the final galley stage), I made further tweaks. So you can see why, I including my thought processes and showed my changes below:

Moira jolted upright, her breath coming in gasps, her heart racing. The nightmare rapidly faded but the terror that clutched her held on tight.

It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a vision, just like the terrible one, she’d had ten weeks before. But this was far more vivid than any she’d ever experienced.

For a long moment, she forgot where she was. She willed her heart to slow, trying to gain mastery over her fear. This morning’s motel room was the same as so many before it. The stale smells, the strange thumps, the yellow lights and thin sheets. Days had rolled into weeks with Moira barely acknowledging the passage of time, blending together Helena Ft. Lauderdale and Denver Ocean City, Fayette Astoria and Santa Louisa, and in between dozens of towns, big and small. At last Moira was in the right place. I changed the cities because Moira knew from the vision that she had in the prologue, that the place she was looking for was on a coast. The cities I’d originally written aren’t. Duh.

“Santa Louisa,” she whispered in the dark. The town wasn’t far from the mission massacre Father Philip had told her about. She realised now that she should have headed here directly after the phone conversation. If only she’d known the mountains in eastern Santa Louisa were a mere thirty miles from the Pacific Ocean!

She’d arrived in the picturesque central California coastal town nearly a week ago, and had stayedremaining after acutely sensing this was the right place. Her research and her finely-tuned sensesinstincts told her the gateway to Hell was here in Santa Louisa. These changes were primarily to tighten and to clarify.

On the Internet message board she regularly frequented that discussed supernatural phenomena, she’d encountered a teenager who described cliffs in the area that seemed strikingly similar to those in her vision. He’d been concerned because a mysterious fire had just destroyed a local house and there’d been other odd things going onoccurances. His name was Jared Santos, and everything he told her confirmed that these were the cliffs of her vision. She’d immediately headed to Santa Louisa. Again, to tighten and clarify. My line editor put in the word “just” and I let it stand in the copy edits, but when I read this out loud I didn’t like it so cut the word.

The cliffs—the ruins of the destroyed house–terrified herMoira even in harsh daylight. Frightening images and thoughts flooded her mind whenever she went new the place. Again, tighten and clarify. My line editor put in the word “harsh” and I let it stand, but there isn’t any harsh daylight in fictional Santa Louisa at the end of January. This is the Central Coast of California. Daylight is gorgeous, and there’s lots of fog.

She’d stood in a place where evil radiated from the ground like heat from a furnace set on high. Makes it more immediate.

Evil surrounded her. Evil didn’t float in the air, it was the air. The earth didn’t smell like earth, it reeked of the dead, of terror, of lost souls clawing through moldy dirt, desperate to escape their fate. She’d passed dead birds, rodents, a mutilated dog as she neared the center of the ruins on the cliffs. Her heart strained, told her to leave, but she looked down, and for a second that seemed to last forever, sheMoira saw a river of fire beneath the surface. She felt the heat rising. The soles of her feet burning, she ran. For clarity.

That first night, in the dark, she’d hid among the cypress, waiting, the fear gnawing at her. She forced herself to stay, hoping—and fearing–her mother would appear.

Fiona hadn’t come. No one had. The following day, Moira had contacted Father Philip and told him what she’d learned. About the fire and the two deaths inside the house. That the house had been completely destroyed was frightening enough. Even Worse, Moira knew that portals like this could be opened only through human sacrifice.

Father asked her to stay on site and watch, to be diligent, and she had been. Or so she’d thought.

Fiona spoke. Surrounded by energy so evil, Moira began to shake, Fiona spoke. Moira could see nothing else, nothing but her mother’s flaming red hair, everything obscured by a smoky curtain that Moira couldn’t penetrate. Dark shapes took form within the curtain, whether human or demon she didn’t know. The gates of hell were opening and Moira was too late. Copyeditor made a good catch with that first sentence and switched the phrases, since that paragraph was one I’d inserted after copyedits they’ll make a pass that I don’t see until proofs.

Dammit, no! She couldn’t be too late. Father was certain Fiona wouldn’t act until the first of February, when the worlds were naturally closer. Moira had agreed, but they were wrong.

It was happening now. How could she face her mother and whatever evil she had summoned and defeat it? Alone?

Yet how could she not?

She sensed beyond a shadow of a doubt that right now—at this very moment—Fiona was on those cliffs finishing what she’d started more than two months before. Two months? Fiona had been seeking immortality her entire forty-eight years, continuing the journey that started with the first covens assembled in ancient times. But Fiona was the first witch to come this close.

“Shit,” Moira muttered, “that’s going to go straight to her head.” She couldn’t let her succeed.

She slid from between the worn sheets, clothed in a blue T-shirt and black panties. She switched on the desk lamp, pulled on her jeans, then tossed her sweat-soaked T-shirt in a plastic bag.

How the fuck was she going to stop her mother? She had no backup, few tools, and little information to go head to head against Fiona. Father Philip hadn’t figured out what the gateway would bring forth, and without that knowledge Moira might as well be sprinkling holy water on Satan himself. A mere sizzle within an apocalyptic inferno.

She couldn’t let Fiona go through with the ritual. It would end in murder. It always did.

The mark on her neck burned.

Moira snapped on a bra and pulled a black turtleneck over her head, then slid into the custom made leather jacket Rico had given her. With special pockets for special things.

“I’m not a hunter,” she’d told him, holding the jacket as if it were on fire.

“No, you’re a huntress,” her trainer said. Rico pushed her chin up. “Despero caveat, mei amica. Despair lets them in. Despair means no hope, and there’s always hope.”

Anger fueled her fear, both volatile emotions that could be used against her. She didn’t know how to control them. That lack of control had screwed her big time in the past often enough to force her to pause now and breathe deeply. She remembered that there was more at stake tonight than her life.

If she failed, the covens would grow even stronger, more powerful, aided with demons at their side. St. Michael’s Order would be in great peril. One by one, Peter’s brothers-in-arms would die. Horribly. Violently. Painfully.

Move it, Moira. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.

She grabbed her bag and opened the door.

Outside, something—someone–moved.

She quickly stepped back into the shadows of her room as she sensed before she saw a person approaching through the dense fog. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it, sweat on her brow. Though she’d yet to do it alone, she knew how to stop a demon. It was extremely difficult outside of a controlled environment–like the monastery–to banish the demon and not kill the human being it possessed. And even then, survival of the victim or the exorcist was not assured. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience.

There was only so much that intensive training could do, even with Rico—the best instructor the Order had—in her corner. Experience trumped the classroom every time. But she had no choice at this point. Fiona was here because Moira had made a deadly mistake. A mistake she couldn’t make again.

Well, um, after re-reading this I realized I’ve bared my soul to you all! From my first, very rough draft to the final galley . . . but if anything, I hope I show you the importance of both writing–getting the story out–and revising, and revising some more. I love revisions, both mine and then incorporating my editors suggestions or responding to her comments. Many authors have said that writing is really revising. I wholeheartedly agree. But the most important thing to do FIRST is get the story down on paper. Without writing the story in the first place, there’s nothing to revise.

Good luck to all the NaNoWrMo participants! Leave a comment for a chance to win WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE, the novella that has the prequel to ORIGINAL SIN (and fabulous stories by our own Roxanne St. Claire and Karin Tabke!)

© 2009, Allison Brennan. All rights reserved.