“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange.”
That’s what it’s like writing a book. My fifth book, Cults, Coffee and Close Encounters was no different. Here’s an example of a first draft vs the last draft for the opening of the book.
1st Draft 2021
In her suit with her ponytail, driving her Holden Fairlane, Janice was pure possibility. She could have been a heavyweight champion of MMA or a Nobel Peace Prize winner. She was in fact, neither. It didn’t mean she couldn’t be, it’s just that she wasn’t, but once a day for 10 minutes after her second coffee she felt like she could. And that is the most important thing.
Certain moments dry out her tongue. Send a shock of adrenaline thundering through her in such a clatter that it staggers her body. Moments like a surprise huntsman spider, a break-up, and today, a yes or no on the biggest project she’s ever put together. Her hands were already sweating on the wheel. With no choice but to drive to the café for a third coffee before her big meeting she took a deep awkward breath. Her heart throbbing so hard it threatened to push her lungs entirely out of her body.
Then her phone rang. The Bluetooth connected and ended her calm playlist. Now only the hard digital sounds of a phone call. A phone call she wasn’t expecting. It must bad news. She pressed the little green button and signed.
7th Draft 2024
Janice hung her head over the toilet bowl. Correction: the public toilet bowl. She was certain that if she could get a little sick out, she’d feel better. A few dry heaves, but not the relief she sought. The antiseptic smell of the toilet cleaner mixed spitefully with the willow bark incense sticks. Her shallow breaths, as fast as her heart, drowned out the noise of the fancy party outside. Her eyes tightly shut and the evening’s expectations played out in her mind, a hundred possibilities ran through her like a freight train. The critical eyes of the board of directors, the whispers over her performance so far, the weight of three different countries all wanting different things from her. Tonight, the contract should be signed and her life’s work would get the green light forward.
“Fine,” she mumbled and hauled herself off the floor. She opened the cubicle door and stared into the mirror. The golden but harsh restaurant bathroom light highlighted the wrinkles around her eyes, carving them deeper than usual, another line of silver in her ponytail. She took a deep breath through her nose and took a pump of the sea buckthorn juniper berry and patchouli skin lotion, rubbed her hands, and shook her head. “Stop procrastinating,” she scolded herself. She rolled her dark almond-shaped eyes, straightened her black and red floral shirt, and touched up her apricot lipstick. A deep breath before fiddling with her shabakeh ring, tracing the intricate patterns that connected her to her grandmother’s heritage.
Aaron Lamb 