The moment of reckoning came disguised as good news. My friend Bob—a fellow Acadian—called with an opportunity: would I donate copies of *The Acadian* to the Acadian Village gift shop? Local author, local heritage, perfect match.
Of course, I said yes. Then I did something fatal: I opened my book to refresh my memory before the donation.
I made it exactly three pages before closing it in horror.
Five years had passed since I'd published *The Acadian* with all the naive confidence of a debut novelist. Five years of writing daily, attending workshops, publishing two more novels, and slowly—painfully—learning my craft. Now, faced with the prospect of my book sitting in a gift shop where actual Acadians might read it, I couldn't ignore what those five years had taught me: my debut was embarrassingly amateur.
*The Acadian* suffered from every rookie mistake, but the worst was what I now call "head jumping"—changing perspective from one character to another whenever the whim struck me. I thought this made the story sophisticated, literary even. In reality, it made it impossible to follow.
One paragraph we're inside Marie's thoughts as she kneads bread. Next, we've jumped to her husband's perspective as he watches her work. Then, without warning, we're experiencing the scene through their daughter's eyes. I was like a drunk driver swerving between lanes, convinced I was in perfect control.
The pacing dragged. The characters felt thin. The conflict lacked real stakes. Worst of all, I was promoting myself as a novelist while my "first" book—the one that would always represent my debut—was work I could no longer stand behind.
Between the original publication and Bob's phone call, I'd averaged three hours of writing per day. That's roughly 5,000 hours of deliberate practice—workshop critiques, failed experiments, daily pages that taught me what worked and what didn't.
I learned structure. I learned how to develop characters who breathe instead of merely serving plot functions. I learned to maintain tension without manufactured drama. Most importantly, I learned to resist the disease that kills most first novels: the desperate need to prove you can write by using every beautiful sentence you've ever conceived.
Good writing, I discovered, is often about what you leave out.
The decision was swift once I made it: complete rewrite. Not revision—demolition and reconstruction. Six months of intensive work that felt like performing surgery on my child.
The hardest part? Establishing that single point of view. Committing to Olivier's perspective throughout meant abandoning scenes I loved, conversations that revealed other characters' thoughts, moments that felt cinematically perfect but served no narrative purpose. It meant trusting readers to stay engaged with one consciousness instead of the kaleidoscope I'd created.
But here's what happened: freed from the chaos of multiple perspectives, Olivier became real. His voice strengthened. His struggles deepened. The story I'd always wanted to tell finally emerged from the wreckage of the story I'd written.
When I finished the rewrite, something unexpected happened: I felt wonderful. Not the exhausted relief of completion, but genuine joy. For the first time since publication, I could hand someone *The Acadian* without wincing.
The new version isn't just technically superior—it's the book I always intended to write but lacked the skill to execute. Same story, same characters, same historical setting, but told by a writer who finally understood his craft.
If you're coming to *The Acadian* for the first time, you're getting mature literary historical fiction—a complete reading experience rather than a learning exercise. If you read the original (bless you), this new version is essentially a different book that happens to share a title.
This isn't just a cautionary tale about publishing too early, though it's partly that. It's a love story—about loving your work enough to make it better, even when that means admitting your first attempt fell short.
Every writer faces this choice eventually: do you let your early work stand as a monument to former limitations, or do you have the courage to make it better? For me, the choice was clear. I couldn't promote myself as a serious novelist while my debut remained amateur work.
The rewritten *The Acadian* represents something more than just a better book. It's proof that writers can grow, that craft can be learned, and that sometimes the best thing you can do for a story you love is to start over completely.
Because here's what 5,000 hours taught me: good writing isn't about getting it right the first time. It's about caring enough to get it right eventually.
The rewritten edition of The Acadian is available now. For readers curious about the writing process and the evolution of craft, I'll be sharing more about this journey in future posts.
The moment of reckoning came disguised as good news. My friend Bob—a fellow Acadian—called with an opportunity: would I donate copies of *The Acadian* to the Acadian Village gift shop? Local author, local heritage, perfect match.
Of course, I said yes. Then I did something fatal: I opened my book to refresh my memory before the donation.
I made it exactly three pages before closing it in horror.
Five years had passed since I'd published *The Acadian* with all the naive confidence of a debut novelist. Five years of writing daily, attending workshops, publishing two more novels, and slowly—painfully—learning my craft. Now, faced with the prospect of my book sitting in a gift shop where actual Acadians might read it, I couldn't ignore what those five years had taught me: my debut was embarrassingly amateur.
*The Acadian* suffered from every rookie mistake, but the worst was what I now call "head jumping"—changing perspective from one character to another whenever the whim struck me. I thought this made the story sophisticated, literary even. In reality, it made it impossible to follow.
One paragraph we're inside Marie's thoughts as she kneads bread. Next, we've jumped to her husband's perspective as he watches her work. Then, without warning, we're experiencing the scene through their daughter's eyes. I was like a drunk driver swerving between lanes, convinced I was in perfect control.
The pacing dragged. The characters felt thin. The conflict lacked real stakes. Worst of all, I was promoting myself as a novelist while my "first" book—the one that would always represent my debut—was work I could no longer stand behind.
Between the original publication and Bob's phone call, I'd averaged three hours of writing per day. That's roughly 5,000 hours of deliberate practice—workshop critiques, failed experiments, daily pages that taught me what worked and what didn't.
I learned structure. I learned how to develop characters who breathe instead of merely serving plot functions. I learned to maintain tension without manufactured drama. Most importantly, I learned to resist the disease that kills most first novels: the desperate need to prove you can write by using every beautiful sentence you've ever conceived.
Good writing, I discovered, is often about what you leave out.
The decision was swift once I made it: complete rewrite. Not revision—demolition and reconstruction. Six months of intensive work that felt like performing surgery on my child.
The hardest part? Establishing that single point of view. Committing to Olivier's perspective throughout meant abandoning scenes I loved, conversations that revealed other characters' thoughts, moments that felt cinematically perfect but served no narrative purpose. It meant trusting readers to stay engaged with one consciousness instead of the kaleidoscope I'd created.
But here's what happened: freed from the chaos of multiple perspectives, Olivier became real. His voice strengthened. His struggles deepened. The story I'd always wanted to tell finally emerged from the wreckage of the story I'd written.
When I finished the rewrite, something unexpected happened: I felt wonderful. Not the exhausted relief of completion, but genuine joy. For the first time since publication, I could hand someone *The Acadian* without wincing.
The new version isn't just technically superior—it's the book I always intended to write but lacked the skill to execute. Same story, same characters, same historical setting, but told by a writer who finally understood his craft.
If you're coming to *The Acadian* for the first time, you're getting mature literary historical fiction—a complete reading experience rather than a learning exercise. If you read the original (bless you), this new version is essentially a different book that happens to share a title.
This isn't just a cautionary tale about publishing too early, though it's partly that. It's a love story—about loving your work enough to make it better, even when that means admitting your first attempt fell short.
Every writer faces this choice eventually: do you let your early work stand as a monument to former limitations, or do you have the courage to make it better? For me, the choice was clear. I couldn't promote myself as a serious novelist while my debut remained amateur work.
The rewritten *The Acadian* represents something more than just a better book. It's proof that writers can grow, that craft can be learned, and that sometimes the best thing you can do for a story you love is to start over completely.
Because here's what 5,000 hours taught me: good writing isn't about getting it right the first time. It's about caring enough to get it right eventually.
The rewritten edition of The Acadian is available now. For readers curious about the writing process and the evolution of craft, I'll be sharing more about this journey in future posts.