The Problem With Underpants (And Other Things I Learned Rewriting My Novel)

When I first published On the Edge of After, I was proud of it. But if I’m being completely truthful, it wasn’t the book I wanted to write.

Somewhere between writing the first draft and publishing the finished novel, I started listening a little too closely to all the things a romance novel was supposed to be. How long it should be. How quickly it should move. What belonged in it and, perhaps more importantly, what didn’t. I had written a big book, and conventional wisdom seemed fairly united on the fact that I should make it a smaller one.

So I did.

I cut scenes. I tightened others. I removed pieces I genuinely loved because they didn’t seem necessary enough to justify the space they occupied. And while editing obviously requires killing some darlings—occasionally with alarming enthusiasm—I also cut things I felt strongly about keeping. Things that mattered to the characters. Things that gave them room to breathe. Things that made On the Edge of After feel more like the story I had wanted to tell in the first place.

And then I published it.

One of the interesting things about being an indie author, though, is that nobody actually came to my house afterward and confiscated the manuscript.

There was no publishing executive standing outside my office insisting I leave the book alone. No manager reminding me that we had all agreed this project was finished. In fact, I don’t have a manager at all, which is probably for the best because I cannot be managed.

So I went back.

Rewriting a book that had already been published felt a little strange at first. There is a very convincing argument that eventually you have to stop touching the thing and let it belong to its readers. I believe that. Mostly.

But there is also something uniquely wonderful about being an independent author and realizing that the book is still mine. If I knew I had compromised parts of the story because I was trying to make it conform to an idea of what a romance novel should look like, I could change that. There should be some benefits to doing all of this myself, after all.

And once I gave myself permission to stop worrying quite so much about what the book was supposed to be, I found the version I had been trying to write all along.

I put things back. I expanded moments that deserved more room. I spent more time with the characters when the story needed time rather than rushing them toward the next plot point. I let On the Edge of After become the size and shape of On the Edge of After, rather than trying to make it fit neatly inside somebody else’s definition of a romance novel.

I am so incredibly proud of what On the Edge of After has become. I couldn’t honestly say that about the version I originally published. I wanted to love it, but I knew how much of the story I had cut away trying to make it fit what I thought a romance novel was supposed to be. This version feels like mine again. It’s the book I wanted to write before I started worrying so much about all the rules.

I also learned that rewriting a novel presents certain unforeseen technical challenges.

Like underpants.

Nobody warns you about underpants.

There are, unfortunately, moments in a romance novel when a character begins a scene wearing underpants and, for logistical reasons, must at some point cease to be wearing them. As the author, you are then responsible for communicating this development to the reader.

The problem is that underpants is not a sexy word.

Panties, however, is basically the worst word ever created, and I refuse to put it in my novel.

This left me with a surprisingly specific writing problem: how do you explain that the underpants have come off without ever acknowledging the existence of the underpants?

Eventually, I went with:

He turned on the tap and tested the water before turning back to her. Merritt had barely reached for him before his mouth found hers. He kissed her once, then sank to his knees, drawing the last of her clothes down with him.

And there you have it.

The underpants are gone.

Nobody had to say underpants.

Literature survives another day.

Anyway, On the Edge of After has finally reached its final form. And this time, when I say final, I mean it.

Probably.

The new paperback also includes Delphine, After, the first Norland Interlude, and you can order the new edition here.

Now I want to know: what do you think is the hardest part of writing?

It’s describing underpants, isn’t it?

Peace, love, and inspiration,
Britt 💚