Wrote plot twist. Wife guessed it. Rewrote twist. Wife guessed it again. Third twist.
Wife: "It's the butler, isn't it?"
There's no butler in my book.
Added butler.
He did it.
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My protagonist discovers ancient secret on page 47. I don't remember writing page 47. Checked draft. Page 47 blank. Checked published book. Page 47 filled. Different handwriting.
Cat sat on keyboard. Gibberish paragraph. Left it in. Best reviews I've ever gotten. "Experimental prose!" "Bold stylistic choice!" "Innovative narrative structure!" Cat now has an agent. I don't.
Book signing. Line of three people. Fan approaches. Trembling with excitement. "I loved the death scene!" "Thank you. Which one?" "Chapter 12. When Sarah—" "Nobody dies in my book." Fan's smile: frozen. "Sarah doesn't die?" "Sarah doesn't exist." Fan clutches a different book. Not mine. Same cover. Almost same cover.
Beta reader: "Who's Kevin?" Me: "Who's Kevin?" *searches manuscript* Page 47. He just appears. Introduces himself. Has three scenes. I have no memory of writing Kevin. Kevin has a backstory now.
Bookmark at page 3. For six months. Book is mine. I wrote it.
Anton Chekhov said if there's a gun in act one, it must fire in act three. My gun: introduced page 1. Never mentioned again. Pure suspense. Reader still waiting. Book ended in 1987.