I don’t know how every other writer writes. We all have our own processes. But two things are almost universally true.

1. Every book — every story — goes through multiple drafts.
2. Every writer has to kill a baby.

Don’t panic. Writers aren’t going around killing cute, squishy babies. Well, some might be. I mean, it’s not like I know every writer out there, and it’s not unreasonable to assume that a few might be, well, murderously psychotic or something. But it’s not a general rule. No one pulls writers aside and says things like, “So, you want to be a writer, eh? Well, here’s your axe.” Wow, this has really gone off course. Moving along…

My point. Writers aren’t murdering babies. But they are murdering their babies, as in their literary babies, i.e. their words. Every day, hundreds or thousands of writers are sitting down and swiping their little red pens (either proverbial or literal) across moments they adore. Across words that made their hearts flutter or their palms sweat or their bodies tense in fear or laughter ring out from their lips. Maybe it’s a piece of dialogue that shows a different side of a character. Maybe it’s a turn of phrase the writer is particularly proud of. Maybe it’s a rare opportunity to use a favorite word (“syzygy,” anyone?). It could be anything. But the author thinks, “I hope that one stays.”

Right now, I’m working on the second draft of a contemporary romance that has been floating around in my head for years. I’ve lost count of how many things have changed. I can count on one hand the moments that are set in stone. I’ve shared them with a few friends. You’re going to love them. I promise. But there are also several tidbits I do love but that are, ultimately, up for grabs. Including the title (mostly because I’m liking that for another idea that popped into my head earlier today).

One of those moments is this little piece of dialogue from my protagonist’s mother, Judith Kingston-Moss. In the middle of a crisis, with her daughter’s world falling apart, she’s trying to adjust her daughter’s makeup. Exasperated, her daughter bats her away, questioning why on Earth she should care about something so trivial, and Judith quips, “Well, if the right lipstick can conquer the world, maybe it can get a man to the altar.” It’s not very consequential to the story. It’s not particularly revealing of the character. Judith, as you’ll discover, is more than meets the eye. But it’s just such a Judith thing to say. And for that reason, I hope it stays.