Why I Had to Rewrite My Novel (Twice, in a Boot)

Every rewrite starts like this: false starts, scribbled notes,

and a clean page daring you to try again.

In my first blog post—Why I’m Starting This Blog (Again)—I mentioned that developmental feedback pushed me into a full rewrite of The Fractured Soul. What I didn’t delve into is that I broke my foot a few days later. So, yes: the first rewrite of this book began not at a desk, but in a boot.

The First Draft: 158,000 Words of Lessons

The first version of The Fractured Soul was a NaNoWriMo-fueled sprint across November and December 2023—153,000 words written in two months. And then, with the obsessive confidence of every first-time novelist, I self-edited it up to 158k.

When I started working with a developmental editor at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, I realized something fundamental was off: I was skipping entire pages just to reach the inciting incident. I’d started the story too early. But it wasn’t just the opening—this slow pacing crept through the entire book. I needed to trim. A lot. And the more I tried, the more it became clear: this story wasn’t something I could fix in place. It would be easier—and better—to start fresh.

The Injury

Then I broke my foot.

A few days after the conference, while vacationing on California’s Central Coast, I fractured three bones and tore my Lisfranc ligament—thirty seconds spent trying to teach my 8-year-old to ride his bike was enough to make sure neither of us wants to touch a bike again. Surgery followed: screws, pins, pain. Our two-week vacation turned into a five-week stay of doctor visits and mobility challenges. I’ve never been more thankful for the flexibility of working remotely.

I was off my feet entirely for eight weeks, in a cast, then a boot, then on a knee scooter and other mobility aids. Logically, it seemed like the perfect time to write. But I found myself in a fog. Pain, mobility challenges, and disconnection made creative focus feel impossible. And while I gave myself permission to shelve the rewrite until fall, I still carried guilt over not pushing through. I knew it was the right call—but knowing and accepting are two very different things.

The First Rewrite: Fall 2024

When I finally returned to the manuscript in October, I approached it with clarity I hadn’t had before. I knew the shape of the story now. I was no longer exploring—I was crafting. That draft came in at 112k words and told a much tighter, more intentional version of Bastien’s journey.

The editor’s mantra—only keep what serves the story—stuck with me. I surprised myself with how free it felt to start fresh. A few months earlier, the thought of letting go of 158,000 words would’ve horrified me. But by then, I was ready.

That rewrite also brought my first round of serious beta feedback—from published authors and English teachers. And they did not hold back. My initial instinct was defensiveness (okay, maybe panic), but I made myself read their comments without flinching. I realized I had a long way to go in showing rather than telling. I hadn’t built in foreshadowing. Bastien wasn’t reacting—he was floating. I had more work to do.

The Second Rewrite: Learning to Let Go (Again)

At their suggestion, I picked up Janice Hardy’s Understanding Show, Don’t Tell—and it transformed how I write. Dramatic? Yes, but I say this with no hyperbole. Subtext clicked into place. Dialogue became more natural. I learned to leave space for readers to feel without explaining everything.

This time, I meticulously outlined every chapter and scene, which paradoxically gave me more freedom in the prose. I cut an entire character. Added a new one. Refocused the primary conflict. Let Bastien’s voice carry more weight—his observations, his silences, his hesitations.

And when I finished that revision in June, I was just shy of 100,000 words—and proud in a way I hadn’t been before.

What I Learned

Back when I started my first draft, the idea of rewriting an entire manuscript from scratch was inconceivable. Now, I can’t imagine having not done it—twice. Those drafts weren’t wasted; they were how I found the real story. How I found my voice.

That voice is leaner now. More restrained. Still lyrical in places, but with a clarity and intentionality I’d never written with before. And while I wouldn’t recommend the broken foot method (seriously, be careful out there!), I also can’t deny that the experience—pain, limitation, frustration—gave me a deeper understanding of how people move through the world and the diverse challenges they encounter. I learned to give myself the space and the grace to work through problems at a slower pace. I hope that found its way onto the page.

Let’s Talk

Have you ever had to rewrite something from scratch? What did it teach you?

Drop your story in the comments—I’d love to hear it!