I made the executive decision to throw out fifty thousand words (not in Savior of the Damned, in case you’re worried). It was not made lightly, especially not after throwing out around fifty thousand words just a few months ago. For the record, none of it was bad. Most of it is also salvageable, at least the concept I was going for if not scene for scene. But as I was finishing Savior of the Damned, I was growing unhappy with the planned progression outlined in mostly finished first drafts. And I’m going to talk about what made me come to this decision. 

I do outline, it’s just not always in a way that’s instantly recognizable. Part of my own struggles with outlining is also that I didn’t recognize I was doing it, because it’s not a style that’s often talked about. For one thing, I tend to outline as I go. Also, my first drafts tend to function as an entended outline, because I’m a chronic underwriter. My biggest first draft was just shy of fifty thousand words and my smallest was around thirty one thousand words. For the record, that smallest book was Savior of the Damned and my final word count is around ninety thousand words. I also tend to do a reverse outline when I’m done, going through chapter by chapter and making sure the points I want to hit are all there, and that everything included either advanced the plot, added characterization, or something along those lines. 

So when I say I threw out fifty thousand words, they were a partial second draft with the ending more outlined than written. It was no small amount of work, either, since my first drafts tend to be incredibly rough. But I had sunk more than one pass into it as well, so it was not a decision made lightly. I spent ages going over my planned progression, and something about it didn’t add  up. There was something there that didn’t vibe with me. It wasn’t the ideas, and it wasn’t the prose, as rough as it could be in some places. But something wasn’t right. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that, while this planned progression was fine on the surface, there was something fundamentally flawed. Something that if I fixed, I could make it much better. 

As I thought, I considered the first fifty thousand words, and why I threw those out. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the words I wrote. They were good words. The problem was they weren’t great. By cutting up the ideas I threw out, including one POV from the one book, and rearranging them, they made for a much better narrative. Sacrificing everything I had written, separating the ideas from the scenes I was able to salvage and reworking it made the story shine better than it had before. 

That was what I thought about as I considered the remaining words in front of me. That the story was good, but it wasn’t great. And retooling it into something else would make it shine much, much brighter. The premise is good, the ideas are fantastic, and the execution was passable. But I could do better. I could do much, much better. 

It’s important to note here I’m a knitter. Part of knitting is knowing when to rip back to fix a mistake, and when you can fudge it. Applying that same line of logic to the third book, I could fudge it, but I also knew I could do better. And I’m the kind of knitter who aims for perfection. Perfection isn’t possible, of course, but holding my art to high standards is something I’ve always done. Did I want to settle for passable? Or did I want it to be amazing?

I wanted it to be amazing. I wanted it to be amazing enough to throw out the words that were left (Which was most of them) to rework the ideas and salvageable scenes into something that would glow like the supernova it was meant to be. 

The logic lined up. Everything made sense, more sense than just forging ahead and settling for potentially just okay. But that didn’t make it any easier. I grappled with the decision for what felt like ages before I decided to jump in feet first and do it. 

It still wasn’t an easy decision to make. I had to grieve the loss of a book I had enjoyed writing, after all, even if most of it was reusable. I could even salvage some of my favorite scenes. That didn’t mean it wasn’t sad, though. I sank so much time and effort into that draft, and I had to accept the feelings as they cropped up. There is nothing wrong with mourning the loss of a long term project, after all. I think a lot of creatives can relate to this. Sometimes, no matter how much you put into a project, it’s just not meant to be. And having that experience helped a lot. How many shawls have I ripped out because they weren’t working? How many blankets got tossed onto the frog pile (where projects go so the yarn can be reclaimed)? Every single one of them sucked to give up on. But I wouldn’t have been happy with the final, finished project, and that matters more to me than clinging to a project I didn’t like and wouldn’t be proud of. Because part of creating, for me, is getting to show off the final product. All the hours sunk into making something are a delight to share with others. That’s the number one reason I love to make things for my friends. 

This line of thought was what helped me come to terms with the idea. And I’m finally hitting a place where I’m excited to create something shiny and new with the pieces from the old work. It doesn’t really set me back, because I wrote that book knowing this was a potential outcome. Savior of the Damned was in the revision and editing phases when I wrote it, after all, with most of it penned while it was in the hands of my first round of beta readers. So I knew it was always on the table. Grappling with that reality was no fun, of course, but I am happy with my final decision. 

The first story arc of Savior of the Damned might be changing, but it’s going to be an amazing journey from beginning to end. I’ve waited so long to tell this story, and I’m so happy I finally get to share the first part of it. I hope you love this first installment as much as I loved writing it. I’m certainly excited to share it with you.