The Evolution of Chapter One

Just when I thought I was finished with chapter one. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better. Just when I thought I had finally finished a draft worthy of submission, I get Margie Lawson’s Deep Editing Lectures in my inbox. She taught an amazing early bird session at ACFW and my head is still reeling from trying to implement just a few of the things she taught us.

Just when I thought I could move on to chapter two, I read her lecture notes and realized there was lots more work to do on chapter one.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve rewritten chapter one, but I can come close because most of them are saved in a folder. So I thought it would be fun to show the evolution of chapter one.

Draft 1

As the bright light illuminated the image, I gasped, horrified at my recent discovery. My heart thumped loud enough to raise the pharaohs from their burial tombs, yet I couldn’t pull myself away.

Cringing, I forced my fingers to feel the grooves on the weathered surface.The tiny cracks on the once flawless exterior taunted me, reminding me of its imperfection. The effects of time had spurred on the aging process. I had to accept the fact. Only a professional could restore this relic back to its original condition.

Time to schedule my next Botox injection.

Draft 2

I stared into my dressing room mirror and gasped. The bright light illuminating my wrinkles made me seem as old as the relics my husband brought back from the field. I forced my fingers to feel the tiny cracks on my forehead.

Mari, Duggins, you shouldn’t be concerned with my appearance; after all it’s what’s inside that counts, right?

But as hostess of the acclaimed university cable show, Archeology Today, I new I had to compete with a younger generation and at thirty-five the camera lens wouldn’t forgive my obvious signs of aging. Neither would my audience, and I couldn’t afford to lose any more ratings.

Draft 3

Drawing in three cleansing breaths, I sank into the television studio’s interview chair. The warn cushions eased my tension, and for once I didn’t mind the tacky chenille fabric and outdated cranberry color. Everything would work out fine, I told myself. Then why couldn’t I shake the recent confrontation between my colleagues, Professor Peter Kipling and Martin Henderson head of Archeology and my first guest.

I pulled a mirror from my Gucci purse, and I gasped. Great! Just great. Thanks Fellas. I’d have to send them both the Botox bill. I forced my fingers to feel the tiny cracks on my forehead and sighed. The studio lighting accentuated my flaws, making me seem as old as the artifacts my husband brought back from the field.

Mari Duggins, you shouldn’t be so concerned with your appearance; after all it’s what’s inside that counts.

Tell that to the network.

Draft 4

My Gucci heels clicked on the tile counting down the seconds as I rushed toward the campus television studio. The intoxicating aroma of fried pastries wafted off the buffet table, but my resolve held thanks to my churning stomach. I couldn’t even choke down a cardboard-tasting protein bar if I wanted to. I glanced at my watch. My gut tightened. Not again. I couldn’t be late today.

“Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Henderson.” Archeology Professor Peter Kipling stood toe to toe with department Martin Henderson outside of the green room. Their voices carried through the empty hallway.

I bit my lip. What was Peter doing down here? Just what I needed before the biggest show of my career.

Draft 5

My Gucci heels echoed on the worn grey tile counting down the seconds as I rushed through the sun-starved corridor toward the dungeon, otherwise known as the campus television studio. The intoxicating aroma of fried pastries wafted off the buffet table, diabolically located between my dressing room and the green room. As I squeezed by the forbidden fat grams, my resolve held, thanks to my churning stomach. I couldn’t even choke down a cardboard-flavored diet bar if I wanted to. I glanced at my watch. My gut tightened.

Not again. I couldn’t be late today.

Draft 6

When I stepped out of my dressing room into the dark hallway, I should have heard death’s gentle taunting. I should have seen it hovering in the glow of the flickering florescent lighting over my colleagues just beyond the green room. I should have felt its seducing talons.

Instead, I rushed toward the campus television studio, my heels ticking like a time bomb.

Archaeology professor Peter Kipling stood toe to toe with the mammoth department head, Theron Henderson. Personal space, obviously not an issue.

I bit my lip.

What was Peter doing here? Didn’t he have an eight o’clock class?

Draft 7(After ACFW)

When I stepped out of my dressing room into the dim hallway, I should have heard death’s gentle taunting. I should have seen it hovering in the glow of the flickering lights over my colleagues. I should have felt its seducing talons pulling me closer to the abyss.

Instead, I rushed toward the campus television studio, my heels ticking like a time bomb as I checked my make-up one more time in my compact mirror.

The intoxicating aroma of fried pastries wafted through hall. My mouth watered. Mental note, find the Einstein who put the breakfast buffet between my dressing room and the green room and have him lobotomized.

At thirty-five, I had a hard enough time maintaining my weight to please that mother-in-law of a camera. An impossible feat for anyone over a size two, I know. But my stubborn Sicilian heritage kept me in denial.

I returned the mirror to my purse and glanced at my watch. My chest tightened. 7:48. I couldn’t be late this morning.

Beyond the green room, Archaeology professor Peter Kipling hounded the department head like a stubborn pup challenging the Alpha male.

“Stay away from her.” Peter’s voice barked through the empty hallway.

My shoulders tensed. What was he doing here? Didn’t he have an eight o’clock class?

Current and probably NOT last DRAFT

When I stepped out of my dressing room into the dim hallway, I should have heard death’s gentle taunting. I should have seen it hovering in the glow of the flickering lights. I should have felt its seducing talons pulling me closer to the abyss.

Instead, I rushed through the hall toward the campus television studio, my heels ticking like a time bomb.

As I checked my make-up once more in the compact mirror, an intoxicating aroma of grease-laden pastries consumed every quivering taste bud. At thirty-five, I had a hard enough time maintaining my weight to please that mother-in-law of a camera. An impossible feat for anyone over a size two, I know. But my stubborn Sicilian heritage kept me in denial.

I sipped my nonfat, sugar-free, vanilla latte, but the allure of the forbidden fat grams, assaulted my senses, my desire transcending Eden temptation.

Mental note, find the Einstein who put the breakfast buffet between my dressing room and the green room and have him lobotomized.

Dropping the mirror in my purse, I glanced at my watch. 7.48. My heart lurched, then sprinted along with the rest of me. I couldn’t be late this morning.

Beyond the green room Archaeology Professor Peter Kipling hounded the department head like a stubborn pup challenging the Alpha male. His usually well-groomed, muddy-brown hair, disheveled as if he’d combed it with a trowel.

Tension weighed on my shoulders.

What was Peter doing here? Didn’t he have an eight o’clock class?

So what do you think? Did I make it better or should I just start from scratch, again? Or perhaps you prefer some draft in the middle?

This weekend I gave my WIP a rest while I went camping over Fall break. Now that my brain is rested, I’m anxious to get writing again. But finding the time will be a challenge, but when is it not?