I found myself having a teeny problem with my last novel. I got the rough draft finished, started slogging through the re-read to the second draft, and suddenly discovered I was bored.
And if I’m bored by my own story, you can believe that readers – who aren’t nearly as invested in these characters as I am – are going to be bored as well, and probably faster.
So what was wrong?
My plot was solid, my mystery was intricate and interesting, and the stakes were life and death.
My hero was a smart guy, a good looking guy (of course), a funny guy, a thoughtful guy who could turn seriously alpha when his girl was threatened.
My protagonist girl was beautiful and sensual and quirky and brave and together they had really good chemistry.
Really good, really predictable chemistry.
Ah. There it was.
Look, I write romance. Everybody knows the hero and the girl are going to end up together. It’s a done deal because it’s the point of the damn book, along with whatever mystery or intrigue or danger you weave into it. But how they get there…that’s what the reader is reading for. They want them fall and fall hard, then they want them ripped apart and put back together again bit by bit until they realize they’ve got to be together. Got to.
My couple slid effortlessly into each other’s arms and happily, sexily stayed there.
So I started reworking and rearranging and ripping and slicing and throwing up hurdles and walls made them fight against it, and then for it.
And now it’s a story and not just a book.