Over the last couple days I’ve reread my book, Confessor. In preparation for a relaunch and possibly continuing on with some more writing (I still have a sequel or 2 in mind) I wanted to fix errors, perhaps do some rewriting, etc. I’ve been away from the book long enough, several years in fact, to hopefully be objective about what I’d written and be able to see trouble spots, sections I would need to rewrite for clarity, maybe having to rewrite the book completely.
When I’d finished it way back in 2012, I was relieved. Eccstatic. This was a novel I had poured my heart and soul into. I felt, at the time, that it had good premise, decent flow, and a semi-brilliant ending. Even though I knew better, a small part of me hoped (and prayed) that it would take off like a rocket. Of course that didn’t happen. But as I said, I knew better. A writer makes money on a body of work, not a single novel.
At any rate, my expectation was that I was going to read it and see a disaster. The plot would crumble beneath my perfectionist gaze.
Only it didn’t. It’s amazing what a few years can do. Sure, I found some errors. Some words that were missed. A few paragraphs I deleted all together. I added a few words for clarity.
As a whole, though, it read well. Way better than I expected. Did I catch everything? Probably not. I still read well published author’s books and fine errors of one type or another. We are human, it happens.
However, having been away from this book for so long and coming back to it, I realized that it’s not bad. I didn’t change the story, delete any chapters, rewrite any large sections. I’m still a perfectionist, but for once I didn’t get the insane urge to scrap it and rewrite the whole thing.
Sometimes, it’s fine, just the way it is.