What We're Writing: Revisions and First Drafts

JENN McKINLAY: First the news: I have some new deals!

 

I try to only work on one project at a time, but occasionally there is a log jam in the workflow and I end up writing a draft while revising another work. This has been my life over the past few weeks and while I'm happy to work on both it does require shifting gears especially when one is a fantasy and the other a romcom. 

Constant vigilance is needed or magic might appear in the romcom THE SUMMER SHARE (coming 2026) or an overly smexy scene will slip into the fantasy WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN (October 2025 - which is up for pre-order now - just click the title) although I think that's an acceptable crossover.

Thankfully, I turned in the revisions this weekend and I could not be more pleased with how my first fantasy came out. So, now I'm back in the saddle to finish the romcom in the next week so I can start the library lover's mystery mentioned above. A busy year - my favorite type!

Sneak peek at a bit of the cover which has not been finalized...yet.

Here's a snippet of WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN to encourage you to click that BUY link!

     October was my favorite month as the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans and sweater weather returned.  As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet. 

     The village of Wessex where I lived and worked was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school, leaving to go to university in New Haven and then doubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home. 

     As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses looked like real people as opposed to American television where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person. 

     I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex where everyone knew everyone, I wasn’t as worried about crime as I was a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn’t that bad things didn’t happen here, of course they did, it’s just that it was very rare and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass so it wasn’t a big surprise.

     Thump!

     The noise sounded again only more forcefully. I put my bowl down on the coffee table and shoved my chenille throw aside. I crossed the room to the front door and switched on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn’t want to get into with him. The porch was empty. 

     Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side. The only items were my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work that afternoon. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?

     I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn’t really Bill’s style, he was more of a dad joke type of guy, but he was the only person who knew about the mysterious book so logic dictated it had to be him.

     “Not funny, Bill!” I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there. 

     I picked up the envelope  and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I’d felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone not leaving ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn’t even felt hot. Okay, if this was a prank, it was next level. 

     I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. It was an old response I’d developed as a kid when my mother had used her witchcraft to make flowers dance in the air or gave our dog colored spots just to make me laugh. My father’s worry for her and his fear of something happening to her because of her magic had conditioned me to feel anxious whenever magic was present.

     I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, locking the deadbolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light, the edges of the pages were jagged and uneven, and the book’s hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use. I couldn’t tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife. 

     Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn’t budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn’t Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope go poof…nope. I refused to go there. 

     The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound. I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip of my middle finger to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin…on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting I was wearing my pajamas. 

     Relief whooshed inside of me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn’t work. It couldn’t…because I was already awake. 

     I glanced down at my kitchen counter where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.

      Shit! I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleep walking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin? Why? 

     I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the blood off the counter. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towel in the trash and stood staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag? 

     Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, I couldn’t quite hear the words, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goosebumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn’t and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.

     I’d had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.

The release date for WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN is October 28, 2025, which feels appropriate. I've already outlined book two in the series and will start writing that after I finish the library lover's, which means I'll likely be revising THE SUMMER SHARE at the same time. I'm trying not to think about it right now.

Tell me, Reds and Readers, when your life is a log jam of projects, how do you manage them? Any tips welcome.

What We're Writing: Jenn's in the Revision Dungeon

JENN McKINLAY: I'm on my second round of revisions for my first fantasy WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN, which comes out in October of next year. Now, I like revisions--even second rounds--because I know it's my chance to get it right. 

However, revisions are complex. If you change one thing in a scene on page 300, you have to go back through the entire manuscript and make certain that whatever you changed matches all of the previous mentions. It can be a crazy maker. And after you've gone through the manuscript fifty or sixty times, you start to feel as if you're chained to it, which is why I call it the revision dungeon.

Appropriately for this book, I believe revisions are where the magic of writing truly happens. While the first draft lays the foundation, the real art lies in refining your ideas. Here is my list of techniques to make the revisions process successful.

1. Step Away First: After completing my first draft, I take a break. I like to take a few weeks to work on something else in between the rough draft and revisions. A fresh perspective helps me see my work more objectively and spot errors like a character's brown eyes suddenly becoming blue.

2. Focus on the Big Picture: I do not toil and nitpick over grammar, that's what copyeditors are for and they'll get their chance soon enough. Instead, I ask myself: Does this piece achieve its purpose? Are there gaps in logic or pacing?

3. Trim the Fat: Be ruthless with unnecessary words, sentences, or sections. Concise writing is impactful writing. My greatest weakness is writing in passive voice as in "She was strolling leisurely across the room" when it should be "She crossed the room." *I learned this from a keynote speech Mary Higgins Clark gave.*

4. Read Aloud: Hearing my work helps identify awkward phrasing and inconsistencies in tone or rhythm. Plus, it makes talking to myself (which I do a lot) seem normal. "Just reading aloud, nothing to hear here." 

5. Get Feedback: I share my work with my plot group. They have their own strengths -- one is fabulous at adding conflict and the other takes the plot in uncharted directions. Fabulous.

6. Edit in Layers: Start with a wide lens and catch the big stuff first. Then zoom in until you get to the petty details and can unload it on a professional copyeditor. I've learned the hard way, I'll never catch all the double the the's on my own. 

To me, revisions aren’t just about fixing mistakes—they’re about uncovering the best version of my writing. I believe if you embrace the process--move all into the dungeon!--then your work will shine.

How about you, Reds? How do you feel about revisions? Any tips to add? Readers, how much do inconsistencies, plot holes, etc. disturb you when you're reading?

WORKING TITLE: What We're Writing by Jenn McKinlay

 JENN McKINLAY: Ever since my first fantasy book was spawned out of a random department that I wrote into the Museum of Literature romcom novellas, the working title was BOOKS OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN -- named after that fictional department of oddball books. Well, as we get closer to the publication date (still a year out) in Oct of 2025, the title has been changed to WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN. 

What do you, dear Readers, think of the change? Oh, wait, you probably want to know the premise so you can be better informed:

Zoe Ziakas enjoys a quiet life, working as a librarian in her small village. When a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch is delivered to her library, Zoe consults the Books of Dubious Origin department at the Museum of Literature and discovers that she is the last descendant of a family of witches who specialize in raising the dead and this little black book is their grimoire. 

Pragmatic Zoe rejects this ridiculous narrative, but when an undead friend of her grandmother's shows up at her house and asks Zoe to help her, Zoe realizes she will never get her quiet life back until she decodes the family grimoire and solves the mystery of what happened to her grandmother and her mother.

The book's potential power draws all things magical to it, and Zoe finds herself under the constant watch of a pesky raven, while being chased by undead Vikings, ghost pirates, and assorted ghouls. With help from the strange and intimidating staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department, Zoe confronts her past and the legacy of her family, but will she embrace her destiny or return to the quiet life she held so dear?

As you can imagine, I have polled A LOT of people about the title change. And this is how it rolled out by preference:

Mystery Writers: BOOKS OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN

Romance Writers: WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN

Fantasy Writers: WITCHES

Academic Librarians: BOOKS

Public Librarians: WITCHES

How do I feel about it? Undecided. I trust Sales and Marketing to know how to best represent the book, but I was partial to the original title, the manuscript of which I am revising right now. 

In fact, here's a snippet:

     I put down my novel and shoved my blanket aside. I glanced out the window beside the door. There was no one on the porch. I cautiously opened the door. I checked the walkway to the street. No one was there. I studied the wind chimes hanging on the corner of the porch. They weren’t moving, so it hadn’t been a breeze. I shifted my gaze to the two wicker chairs to the right. They were empty but perched on the back of one of them was the raven.

     “Ah!” I started. Had this uninvited guest been making all of that racket? He was the only one here so it had to have been him. I was equal parts relieved and annoyed. I walked toward the bird. He didn’t move. I raised my arms and waved my hands at him. “Shoo!”

     He turned his head to the side and stared at me with one pale blue beady eye as if assessing my threat level. It was going to be high if he pooped on my furniture. 

     “Party’s over!” I clapped my hands. The sound was loud in the evening quiet. He flapped his wings and flew from the chair to the porch railing. I clapped again. “You don’t have to go home, big guy, but you can’t stay here.”

     With a leap, he jumped off the railing and soared out into the darkness. I glanced at the houses on each side of mine. All was quiet. I turned and went back inside, assured that peace had been restored.

     I had just settled into my chair and started reading when there was a thumping sound on the porch. 

     “Oh, hell no,” I muttered. “We’re not doing this all night.”

     I tossed aside my blanket and crossed to the door. I unlocked it and yanked it open. “I said, ‘Shoo!’”

     But it wasn’t the raven. Instead, standing before me was a diminutive ash blonde, a pale woman of a certain age--I was guessing  mid to late fifties. She was wearing a beige wool coat and clutching a stylish handbag which matched her equally fashionable shoes.

     “Can I help you?” I asked.

     “I certainly hope so, dear,” she said. Her blue eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled at me. “I’m Eloise Tate, a childhood friend of your grandmother’s.”

     “Excuse me?” I asked. The odds of Mamie coming up in conversation twice in one day had to be a million to one. Years of my life had passed without my grandmother being mentioned and now she’d been mentioned twice. My gut twisted. Something wasn’t right. 

     “Antoinette Donadieu, Toni, she was your grandmother, yes?” Eloise tipped her head to the side as she studied me. “Your resemblance to her is uncanny.”

     “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but Mamie would be in her eighties now. There’s no way you’re old enough to have been a childhood friend of hers.”

     “Oh, but I was,” Eloise said. “Sadly, I passed away when I was fifty-two.”

     “Passed away?” I choked out the words.

     “Yes, but dear Toni brought me back and I was her faithful companion right up until the day she died. Now I need you, Zoe, to send me on.”

     “Send you on?” I repeated. There was a buzzing in my ears, probably panic, that made it hard to hear her.

     “You have the grimoire from your mother, yes? Which means you have the spell to send me across the veil to the other side.” She beamed and I noticed a fleck of pink lipstick on her teeth.

     “You’re telling me you’re dead,” I said. My eyes ran over her. She was clearly not dead. So…what in hell was going on here?

     “Oh, I can assure you, I’m very much deceased.” She nodded. “Toni planned to return me before she passed away, but the grimoire was stolen and Toni was murdered before she had the chance.”

     “Murdered?” My chest felt tight. I couldn’t get enough air, everything went fuzzy and I started to see spots. I leaned heavily against the doorjamb. “Who exactly murdered Mamie? Do you know?”

     “Why it was your mother, dear.” 

Now my second question is: How much does a title weigh in on your decision to buy a book? And should I be concerned? LOL.