Chapter 21 revisited

A friend asked recently if I change much in the multiple drafts I do, and my answer was a predictable “it depends”. Sometimes, I rewrite whole chapters, other times I just tweak some phrases or dialogue. Towards the end of the drafting process every sentence and word is reconsidered, but on the second draft I’m making any changes that are needed to complete the shape of the story or to improve the pacing.

Chapter 21 of Bad For Good is a good example. It’s towards the end of the story (page 233, three chapters from the end) and needs to crack on at a pace to set up the climax. Here’s how it opened in my first draft:

[Claire has had a fight with one of the bad guys and has collapsed in the centre of town] 

‘Are you okay, love?’ 

No, I certainly wasn’t fucking okay. I’d possibly killed a man, hadn’t I? But somehow, and I’m not exactly sure how, I had retained just enough control not to share that with the kindly, caring policeman squatting down on his heels and brushing the hair from my eyes.

‘Too much…’ I managed. He nodded in sympathy. ‘I’ve drunk too much. I’ll be fine.’ 

With an almighty effort and a helping hand from the helpful officer I managed to pick myself up from the wet, dirty paving. The Thames in all of its high tide glory was hurling itself at the wall, drenching the stone paving we were standing on. The rain appeared to be easing but I don’t think I’d ever felt so wet.  

I must have looked a right state. I was in a right state. No wonder he’d thought I was as drunk as a skunk, drunker even. 

His concern was misplaced and, once he’d realised I was unlikely to topple over again and was vertical (if not exactly fully perpendicular) and surprisingly steady on my feet he thought better of giving me the formal lecture on the perils of over-imbibing in a heatwave and told me to be careful. I assured him I would be. He didn’t look convinced but left me to go on his way, righting wrongs and fighting crime like the good ’un he undoubtedly was. 

Fuck. That was close. 

I tried to compose myself, my breathing was slowly returning to normal. My legs were heavy, as if they had minds of their own and had just had enough of obeying my commands.  

Tough. I needed them to get back through the tunnel one more time. How the copper had missed the gun I’d been lying on I’d never know – talk about hiding something in plain sight. I picked it up and put it in my rucksack, along with my empty one. Quite a weight now, that bag. I looked up and around me. Bloody CCTV everywhere. Shit shit shit. I needed to move quickly before the policeman was back to do his job properly.  

My shoulders dropped as I sighed. I pulled out my mobile to call Barclay then remembered it was completely dead – I’d forgotten to recharge it in the café. Bloody iPhones – no stamina. I needed to get myself something better that didn’t need plugging into a wall all the time? What’s the point of a mobile that becomes immobile every few hours? 

Whatever. That was the least of my problems. I shook my head and started back to the tunnel stairs, one last trip back under the river. This time I got the lift at both ends – no point in pushing my reluctant legs to do any more than absolutely necessary.

Not my best writing, I’ll admit, but it did the job in the first draft. But it was too long and too wordy, dawdled when it needed to run and the policeman doesn’t add anything. Here’s how I’ve rewritten it in the second draft: 

Fuck. Nice one, Claire. That wasn’t exactly your finest hour.  

I tried to compose myself; big, slow deep breaths. I needed to move but my legs had other ideas. Standing they could just about manage but running? Forget it - they were ready to call it a night. I looked up and around me. Bloody CCTV cameras everywhere. Shit shit shit. I needed to move quickly before someone at Big Brother central noticed that all was not well down in the centre of town.  

I pulled out my mobile to call Barclay, only to find that some idiot had forgotten to recharge it in the café. Some idiot? That would be me. My shoulders dropped as the world conspired against me yet again. Bloody iPhones – no stamina. I felt a sudden nostalgic pang for my ancient Nokia. What’s the point of a mobile that needs charging every few hours? More like an ‘immobile’, surely?

Whatever. That was the least of my problems. I shook my head, lied to my legs that it wouldn’t hurt this time (honest) and started back to the tunnel stairs, one last trip back under the river. 

It’s now half the length and has twice as much character and, to my eyes at least, reads much better.
I’ve had to do similar surgery on the rest of the chapter. It’s funny - back in an earlier post on this blog I reported that this was a chapter (it was numbered ‘20’ in the first draft) that had really felt good to write, but when I got around to re-reading it this week it was an absolute mess.
Just goes to show how little I know. Never mind, it’s in the process of being fixed now.