One of the main characters, Elliott, changed a lot in the revision process of I, Spy, thanks to some very valuable feedback from my fantastic critique partners. He was bad at his job, sort of a sad sack, and just plain not sympathetic. A great discussion with my critique partners gave me a lot of ideas to work with, and here are some of the notes straight from the file:

• What has Elliott sacrificed to save her?
• Talk more about how good he used to be at his job
• Could Elliott have covered for Talia before when she made a mistake?
• Make him funnier in dialogue—funny is always a way to relate. Let us see the chemistry between them. More back and forth fun.
• Maybe he’s gregarious and sarcastic. Is he arrogant or humble? We need to balance this—too much swagger is a turn off, but if they’re playful about it, like “You know you just can’t resist these eyes,” it’s charming. He plays it up in a fun way.

So how much of a difference did it make? I’ll show you. Here’s the end of chapter 1 in the version I brought to critique group (which was draft 5, if you’re interested)

I hop in the back and we drive off. Once we make the first stop on our surveillance detection route, a 24-hour Tim Hortons (kinda like a Starbucks), I climb into the front seat.

Let me just tell you: Elliott is hot. There’s no two ways about it. (But I have a boyfriend and Elliott’s married, and possibly even more important, we work together so closely that I’m fairly sure Elliott doesn’t remember I’m a woman, I’ve been in the boys’ club so long.) For your reference, Elliott has tall, dark and handsome down to a T, with the broad shoulders and blue eyes to match. If nothing else, he looks the part of a superspy.

But tonight he didn’t act it. I pick at the wrapper of my cranberry blueberry bran muffin. I had to leave before dinner with my boyfriend for this op — but suddenly I’m not hungry. I turn to Elliott. “There are five seconds missing in my timeline.”

He sips his coffee, his eyes on the road, but there’s no traffic, so it’s not like driving requires his full attention. “Sorry.”

I wait for him to continue.

“I turned away — just for a minute — and when I looked back, the screen door had moved. I backed up the tape and saw them.”

“You were supposed to be spotting. So why weren’t you spotting?”

He’s still not looking at me. “Jenna texted about her contractions. False alarm.”

His wife. He was on the phone with his wife, due any minute with their first.

I’d like to yell at him. I really would. Those five seconds could have cost me my life. But they didn’t, and no matter what I do now, he’s going to get it when we get back.

The Elephant has struck again.

And in the final version (draft 11 or so):

We’re clear. It’s over. At last, I can hop in the back of the van and breathe easy. The cool, sweet satisfaction of a job well done — or at least survived — doesn’t hit my bloodstream until I’ve scrubbed off the makeup and we’re in line at a 24-hour Tim Hortons (like a Dunkin’ Donuts), the first stop on our surveillance detection run.

We did it. It was close, but even if no one can ever know, we’re that much safer, that much closer to stopping Lashkar-e-Omar. I casually scan the late-night crowd, but the release of relief I’m waiting for, the last hit of that satisfaction, doesn’t come.

Because I almost didn’t make it out. And Elliott and I both know why. The tension tightens along my spine.

“Two medium Double-Doubles, please.” He orders two coffees with his I’m-so-charming-you-should-throw-in-something-for-free smile.

“You pulling an all-nighter?” My question’s more of a challenge.

He turns that smile on me. “No, I wanted to get you something.”

I just stare back. He knows I don’t even pretend to do coffee (Mormon), and even if I did, does he think sixteen ounces of caffeine would make everything all better?

He gives me an elaborately casual elbow nudge. I’m taken and Elliott’s married, but the guy’s got tall, dark and handsome down to a T, with broad shoulders and blue eyes to match. And he knows it. He bats those baby blues at me. “You know you can’t say no to these eyes.”

Again, I shoot him a cool glare. Normally, my deadpan response would be part of our banter, but tonight I’m not joking.

“Okay.” Elliott turns back to the clerk. “One medium Double-Double and a donut.” He winks at me, though we both know I won’t eat.

Against my will, I take the maple dip donut. I had to leave before dinner with my boyfriend for this op, but now I’m not hungry. If there’s anyone I can rely on at work, it’s Elliott. We’ve worked together so much, we anticipate one another’s steps and strategies and even sentences. Despite the teasing, sometimes I wonder if he remembers I’m a woman, with how long I’ve been in the boys’ club — though now I remember how much he looks the part of a superspy.

But tonight he was less James Bond, more Maxwell Smart. Once we’re back in the van, I pick at my donut’s maple glaze. “Five seconds are missing.”

Normally, Elliott would whip out another of those killer grins and aim it at me. Tonight, he sips his coffee. “Sorry.” The charm switch is off, those baby blues fixed on the road. There’s no traffic, so it’s not like driving requires his full attention. I wait for him to continue. “I turned away — just for a minute. When I looked back, the screen door had moved. I backed up the tape and saw them.”

“You were supposed to spot. Why didn’t you?”

He’s still not looking at me. “Shanna texted about contractions. False alarm.”

He was on the phone with his wife. His wife who I do not kid about. Who’s due any minute with their first. Who’s justifiably jealous of the time I spend with her husband.

I’d like to yell at him. I really would. Those five seconds could have cost me my life. But they didn’t, and no matter what I do now, he’s going to get it when Will reviews the recordings.

The Elephant has struck again.