I do not think your novel is about what you think it is about

Inigo Montoya sits across from you at the coffee shop. He's your novel critique partner. You've already given him your notes on his latest work. He wasn't exactly pleased with your line edits. He actually said, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my darlings. Prepare to die!" but you talked him out of the whole killing you thing and he's ready to give you notes on your latest work in progress.

"So? What did you think?" you ask, the anticipation killing you. "I know it's not perfect. Just tell me what is wrong with it!"

"Let me 'splain." He pauses, looks over his many notes and shakes his head. "No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Tell me what your book is about."

"Well, it's about this explosion and this girl and…"

"You keep saying that. I do not think your novel is about what you think it is about."

"What do you mean?"

"Every time we talk about dis book, you talk about dis explosion when most of the book is about this girl and her mother and thees stuff about class and wealth. This explosion… it is like the sixth finger on the hand of the man who killed my father."

"Wait, but how can I be wrong about what my books is about? I'm the one writing it!" Inigo just shrugs. You start to think about it. You realize he is probably right. The explosion feels less and less important to the story the more you work on it. Those were the parts that felt the most awkward, the most forced, even as you were writing them. Maybe subconsciously your book has been about something else all along and you only hung onto the explosion because it was what originally inspired the whole project.

"I have to thank you," you say at last. "You've been an amazing help. You're such an insightful critique partner, I'm amazed I found so many problems in your book."

Inigo nodded. "As a writer, you are wonderful."

"Thank you; I've worked hard to become so."

"I admit it, you are better than I am."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because I know something you don't know." Inigo rises, taking your notes and his hand written draft.

"And what is that?"

"I am not left-handed." He starts to walk towards the door.

"Wait a minute. Are you saying that you wrote that whole draft with your left hand when you are really right handed? But that doesn't even…" But his ride, the large man in the holocaust cloak, is waiting outside and, as you watch them wheel away in their wheelbarrow, all you can do is weakly call, "Have fun storming the castle!" after them.

You look back down at your draft, seeing it in a whole new light.

You may also enjoy these related posts. . .

NaNoWriMo Update: 75% and back to the same book…sort of
NaNoWriMo Status: sick, tired but past 21k, people!
Holy crap, I finished! (The book, not Nanowrimo)