My Phantom trilogy has more layers and more things I’m trying to do than anything I’ve written before.  A lot of the work of revising is to make sure all those layers are there.  Or, to put it with another metaphor, to make sure each of many, many threads is woven through in the right places with the right prominence.

So it’s nice when I can work a lot of things into a small space–because there’s plenty to get in here.  I made edits to the scene below, adding layers (or weaving in more threads).  Most of this was slipped into a conversation that was already in the previous draft–but I managed to add a musician reference for Erik, have Meg observe it, explore why Erik is haunting the Opera, give Meg data on same, add a music metaphor for Meg the ballet dancer, and throw in a clarification on just how rich Erik is–all while the main purpose of the larger scene is actually what Erik is going to do about the policeman hunting him, something that’s starting to nudge him out of his apathy.

Revisions are complicated. 🙂

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Erik drummed his fingertips against the stage, each one tapping independently as though he was following a rhythm too complex for me to decipher.  A pipe organ—Christine had mentioned a pipe organ and that’s what this was like, like a musician’s hand on keys.

So busy watching his hand, I almost missed his words, when he said, voice quiet, “Don’t you think it’s an awful thing, a man terrifying an Opera Company with hauntings?”

Maybe it was strange to say, but I never had.  I lived among the people he was frightening, and yet never disliked him for doing it.  Maybe I was too used to it.  Or maybe he had always drawn just the right line.  “They’re not actually that frightened,” I said.  “I think they enjoy—”

“Of course they’re frightened,” he said sharply, going as stiff and tense as he’d been when he first stepped out.  “They have to be, that’s the point.”

Talking to Erik was like a very complicated dance, one where you never knew which board in the floor was going to drop out from under you.  It kept things lively.  I made a tactical retreat, a temps levé backwards.  “Yes, of course.”  A meaningless phrase, then a jump to a new topic.  “And really, it’s Monsieur Andre’s problem if he doesn’t appreciate the valuable services of a theatre ghost.  All things considered, you’re probably a bargain.”

He turned his head to look at me this time, eyes widening in surprise.  “Do you know how much they’re paying me?”

More each month than I was likely to earn my entire career—but that wasn’t what mattered, and my half-joking comment had set me off on a sudden new idea.  I sat up straighter.  “No, wait, maybe that’s the answer!”

But you’ll have to read the book to find out the answer 🙂

I’m not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, because I’m too deep into revisions for my Phantom trilogy (book two), but I did set some revision goals: so let’s call it NaNoRe(vision)Mo and share some updates anyway. 🙂

I actually did do a lot of new writing this week, as I realized I needed a couple new scenes in the early stages of the book, to carry a few threads forward rather than trying to jump two months in book time.  And the new scenes, combined with the realization that I had the Phantom’s tone all wrong in the next scene after, made for some interesting revision work.

In brief, the Phantom (Erik) is grieving Christine’s departure, and while I don’t want him to be TOO angsty…well, he’s over-dramatic and heartbroken and probably a little angsty.  But this scene as it was first written had him too angry and indignant, losing all the apathy and depression he should still be wallowing in.  So I rewrote it–still essentially the same scene, all the same action, but a new tone.

Here’s the original:

Erik sat in a narrow passage with his back against the hidden side of the Dance Foyer’s mirrors and fumed.  The sheer audacity of the man!  And the inconvenience!  After so many years of polite disinterest, how dare Mifroid suddenly decide to take up ghost hunting!

He had had to attend the performance from the catwalks, where the acoustics were comparatively dreadful.  Not to mention the view was poor, the seating left a good deal to be desired, and he had to keep an eye out for wandering scenechangers the whole while.  No, this was simply not acceptable.

And furthermore, why did it have to happen on Saturday?  The one day in the entire week that it actually mattered that he have possession of Box Five after the performance—not that it mattered very much, of course.  He took a deep breath, carefully checked the free flow of indignation.  Talking to Meg was, well, a bit of a diversion.  And now Mifroid had managed to disrupt even that.

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And here’s the revision–not hugely different, but hopefully it’s all in the nuances!

Erik sat in a narrow passage with his back against the hidden side of the Dance Foyer’s mirrors and resented the world.  After so many years of polite disinterest, how dare Mifroid decide to take up ghost hunting.  Not that it was news—Meg had told him about Mifroid’s inquiries weeks ago—but this was the first time the police had actually got in his way.

He should have stayed home this evening, never should have bothered to come out of his dark seclusion.  He had dragged himself up into the light, and for what?  To find the police commissioner sitting in his own personal box, with other policemen running in and out all through the performance with reports.  As if it needed that to make it sufficiently obvious that Mifroid was here on business, not for the pleasure of observing the Opera.

He should have left as soon as he realized Mifroid was here.  But it was Saturday.

He had lingered in the catwalks all through the performance with a degree of regret that had surprised him.  It had been 73 days and 22 hours since she left, which meant—he had to pause to do the math.  Nine.  This would have been the ninth Saturday since he had started meeting Meg in Box Five.

 

I’m well into revisions for my second Phantom novel now.  One thing I’m finding particularly fascinating is the new opportunities for describing my two main protagonists.  You see, this book is strikingly different from Book One in a significant way–my main characters actually spend time together!

In Book One, my two point of view characters, Meg and the Phantom, almost never interact.  They’re only in the same scene five times–twice they don’t talk to each other at all, and once they exchange only a few lines of dialogue.  All of which means, there are very few opportunities for my two protagonists to describe each other.  We mostly only get to see each character from his or her own viewpoint–and the Phantom in particular is not very communicative.  I’m excited by how much more I’ll be able to share about my two characters in Book Two, by being able to present them through each other’s eyes.

The excerpt below is from chapter two of Book Two, from Meg’s point of view, and it’s the kind of thing there was simply no opportunity to put into Book One.  So it was fun to write!

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I watched him covertly as we talked, though I probably needn’t have tried to hide it.  He rarely looked at me, keeping his gaze on the curtains closing off the box, just as though they were open and a performance was going on.  When he did look at me, it was a quick glance that slid away again at once.  What was he thinking, in those moments?

My eyes had long since adjusted to the dim light, and I could see that his dark evening clothes were as immaculate as they had been the day I met him six years before.  Whatever grief he felt about Christine leaving, he wasn’t showing it in a disheveled appearance.  Why did a man no one ever saw care what his clothes looked like, anyway?

His mask hid so much of his face that I quickly dismissed it as a place to learn anything about his thoughts or his mood.  I found myself watching his hands instead.

When I had first come in, his hands had been closed around the arms of his chair.  It took some time, in the shadows, for me to realize how tightly he was gripping them.

Not so calm after all.

As we talked about music, first one hand and then the other rose, sketching points in the air.  He had long fingers, the right hands for a man who played the pipe organ.  I could almost see the notes in the air as his hand flowed through a crescendo.  His voice had grown warmer too.  Not enthusiastic.  Barely even friendly.  But at least there was a hint of interest.