I have a completed draft novel sitting in my writing folder that (despite redrafts) I am yet to be happy with.
The body of the work, I am delighted with. It was always the opening that bothered me. It was trying to do too much and had grown into a beast with six heads that I could not tame.
The initial draft came in at 75,000 words and took me 28 days to write. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. There was some work to be done – obviously, it was a first draft.
Then I rediscovered Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus. Arguably the first ever Science Fiction novel. It was not the story itself, but the framing device that inspired a whole new approach to the novel that has languished for so long.
The first draft was me telling you about the protagonist. The second draft was the protagonist telling his own story. This new draft is his Granddaughter using his journals to tell her neice what really happened.
My dearest Shelly, an entire year has passed since the Daffodil Moon during which I made a solemn – if drunken – promise to you. When I promised that I would share with you the story of that statue in The Garden and the change that came upon us all, I meant it. I suspect that you may think me a terrible aunt who had forgotten you. I assure you, I am not the monster that Jules and Arthur claim I am.
Unpublished Draft Novel, Chapter 1.
And with that, I was able to take a story about worlds and focus it down to a much more intimate and accessible story of family. Not to mention the
