Thanks to Emily, Audra has a second chance at life. She’s doing all the things that seemed impossible just two years ago: Go to college. Date. Stargaze in the Rocky Mountains. Maybe get a tattoo. You know, live.
Jake Cavanaugh, a photographer with mysterious, brooding gray eyes, agrees to help chronicle her newfound experiences. She makes him laugh, one of the only people who can these days. As they delve into each other’s pasts – and secrets – the closer they become.
But she’s guarded and feels like she can’t trust anyone, including herself.
And he’s struggling with the fact that his beloved sister’s heart beats inside her.
Why Your Book Will Never Be Perfect
I'm going to tell you why your book will never be perfect like you're wanting it to be. (Hopefully I'm not bursting any bubbles!)
That's what we all aim for, right? Perfection. The perfect book filled with the perfect words and the perfect plot with the perfect characters and setting. A book that will rock everyone's world and earn you awards and praise.
Well, you might earn awards and tons of praise, but you will never have a perfect book. And I'm going to prove it to you.
I'm going to use my debut as an example. THE HEARTBEAT HYPOTHESIS went through a bazillion edits, CPs, and Beta readers. It even went through an R&R. By that point, I thought my work was done. I'd edited the hell out of my manuscript and received enough great feedback to believe it was fabulous. What more could I do?
A lot, actually.
When Entangled Publishing acquired my book, they requested a good deal of changes. One MAJOR plot thing, and a bunch of other, smaller edits. To be honest, getting that first edit letter was hard to deal with. There I was, thinking I had a perfect manuscript, (and one that I sold!) but alas, it was not perfect...
Some of the edits were hard to swallow, and it took a few days to accept them and figure out how to stay true to my story. But I killed some darlings and made a lot of changes. And in case you're wondering, that was only edit round one - out of three.
After completing said edits, my book was complete and finally out of my hands. And you know what? I bet if I went back through it, I would find things to change. Words to swap out. Dialogue to modify. But at some point, you have to simply let go, knowing it will never be perfect. Not everyone will like it. Some plot points will thrill readers, and those same plot points will ruin the story for others.
(Subjectivity in a nutshell.)
So whether you're writing your first draft or your tenth, give yourself a break. Have you ever seen a book get all 5 star reviews? No. Have you ever found a book where someone didn't rip it to pieces, criticizing this, that, and the other? No.
We all desperately want everyone to love our book, but we all know deep inside, that will never happen. There's no such thing as a perfect book, a perfect character, a perfect plot - NOTHING is perfect.
So stop fretting. (Hard to do, I know.) You wrote a book? Well, you're amazing. You're working on a book? You're still amazing. Plenty of people want to write a book, but how many of them do?
You know the answer to that one. ;)
You created something magical, and in my opinion, it shouldn't be perfect. After all, what in life actually is?
What are your thoughts on perfection? Tweet me! @LindseyMF
How do you decide when a book is good enough - since it can never be perfect?
(And can we all agree subjectivity is one hell of a witch?!)
“Audra…I’m really sorry.”
My mind was stuck on the way my name sounded coming from him in that low, rough voice. I wrapped my arms together, running my hands down them to chase away the line of goosebumps. “It’s fine. I understand.”
His jaw twitched. Fingers flexed and unflexed. “I’ve still got more pictures to take,” he said, taking a step back. “If you still want a piano lesson, I’ll be in the rec center at seven on Monday, okay? Meet me there.”
I nodded, offering him the best smile I could manage. But as he turned to go, I whispered, “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
He flashed me a questioning look. “Sorry for what?”
I lowered my arms and pressed my palms together. “About Emily.” I’m sorry she’s dead and I’m not, and that you want her to be standing here and not me. I’m sorry if this isn’t what she would’ve wanted—me living the life she couldn’t have.
I’d never seen anyone stand so still and straight-faced for so long. The only movement was his chest rising and falling with increasing pace.
When he spoke, agony laced every word. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
My whole body trembled, a thousand tiny needles pricked at my skin, and I couldn’t keep my voice from wavering. “I think…I feel like—”
“No.” He shook his head, inching toward me again. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you apologizing.”
Peering across the street at a cluster of trees, I swallowed. The coils in my chest tightened like a winding rubber band until I thought I might snap in two.
Jake said my name again, lower this time, and when I looked at him, he was only inches away. “I have a lot of shit going on. None of it has anything to do with you.” Two fingers brushed the edge of my cheek, and he gave me a half-hearted smile. “You just don’t know me that well.”
My skin burned beneath his light caress. “That’s the whole point,” I whispered, still shaking. “I don’t know anything about you. But I want to.”
“I’m not an easy guy to understand.” His fingers drifted down my neck, and he took another deep inhale before he pulled his hand away.
I’m beginning to see that. I ran my own hand over the spot where he’d touched me, then rubbed the back of my neck. “Most people aren’t.”
“I know.” His eyes grew unfocused as he lifted the camera up. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you Monday?”
I nodded and he stepped past me, heading for the back of the house, his shoes crunching over the dry grass.
Flattening my palms against my sides, I looked at the porch steps, wishing I didn’t have to go back inside, through the crush of people. Wishing Jake wasn’t leaving me.
“Hey,” he called from yards away, his figure merely a shadow beneath the trees. “I want to know you too.”
My mind was stuck on the way my name sounded coming from him in that low, rough voice. I wrapped my arms together, running my hands down them to chase away the line of goosebumps. “It’s fine. I understand.”
His jaw twitched. Fingers flexed and unflexed. “I’ve still got more pictures to take,” he said, taking a step back. “If you still want a piano lesson, I’ll be in the rec center at seven on Monday, okay? Meet me there.”
I nodded, offering him the best smile I could manage. But as he turned to go, I whispered, “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
He flashed me a questioning look. “Sorry for what?”
I lowered my arms and pressed my palms together. “About Emily.” I’m sorry she’s dead and I’m not, and that you want her to be standing here and not me. I’m sorry if this isn’t what she would’ve wanted—me living the life she couldn’t have.
I’d never seen anyone stand so still and straight-faced for so long. The only movement was his chest rising and falling with increasing pace.
When he spoke, agony laced every word. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
My whole body trembled, a thousand tiny needles pricked at my skin, and I couldn’t keep my voice from wavering. “I think…I feel like—”
“No.” He shook his head, inching toward me again. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you apologizing.”
Peering across the street at a cluster of trees, I swallowed. The coils in my chest tightened like a winding rubber band until I thought I might snap in two.
Jake said my name again, lower this time, and when I looked at him, he was only inches away. “I have a lot of shit going on. None of it has anything to do with you.” Two fingers brushed the edge of my cheek, and he gave me a half-hearted smile. “You just don’t know me that well.”
My skin burned beneath his light caress. “That’s the whole point,” I whispered, still shaking. “I don’t know anything about you. But I want to.”
“I’m not an easy guy to understand.” His fingers drifted down my neck, and he took another deep inhale before he pulled his hand away.
I’m beginning to see that. I ran my own hand over the spot where he’d touched me, then rubbed the back of my neck. “Most people aren’t.”
“I know.” His eyes grew unfocused as he lifted the camera up. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you Monday?”
I nodded and he stepped past me, heading for the back of the house, his shoes crunching over the dry grass.
Flattening my palms against my sides, I looked at the porch steps, wishing I didn’t have to go back inside, through the crush of people. Wishing Jake wasn’t leaving me.
“Hey,” he called from yards away, his figure merely a shadow beneath the trees. “I want to know you too.”
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