The Most Kindest Cut of All

I get it, I really do.  I get how hard it is to cross out a cunning word.  To draw a line through a finely-wrought phrase.  To sever a sumptuous sentence.  To amputate a paragraph, to delete great dialogue, to chop a chapter, to cut.

I’ve been doing a lot of cutting lately; I know whereof I speak.

My writing focus these days is on polishing up Shadow’s Road.  When I have a couple of Parts good-to-go – Shadow’s Road has 8 – I ship them off to my son Neil for editing.  Neil is a damn fine writer (video game reviews, opinion pieces, and commentary; HERE is a link to one of his posts), an avid reader of fantasy fiction (familiar with the field), and a ruthless line-editor (keen discriminatory faculties and an eye for detail).

Neil doesn’t get my pages, though, till my inner-editor has had a few whacks at them.

Indulgent writers ignore their inner-editors or get an inner-cheerleader to drown them out.  Smart writers don’t just listen; they tune their inner ear to catch the faintest whisper of discontent from the editor within.  These days especially, when publishing houses are no longer in the business of cultivating talent and bringing rough mss. to full potential, when submissions have to be shelf-ready to even be considered, when a writer’s final draft is the draft that goes to print, a capable inner-editor is key.

So this polishing edit . . . I’m looking for content, context, comprehensibility, sure.  I’m looking for continuity and flow.  I’m looking for repeated words, good grammar, appropriate punctuation, and typos.  And I’m looking to cut.

Wish I’d made these cuts years ago, before sending Shadow’s Road to my agent . . . but as the book was already way late by industry standards and as I’d pushed my writerly life as far as it could go without financial compensation, I felt under massive pressure to call it “done” and get it sold.  Besides, I was married to my words.

I didn’t know I was married to them.  Nobody ever does.  I was convinced each and every word served an essential purpose:  furthering the plot, developing character, setting the scene, providing stylistic flavor.

I was half-right.  Every word did serve a purpose.  But every word was not essential.

My friend and mentor, sci fi/fantasy author Dave Smeds, tried to tell me as much.  He liked the book, but suggested it could stand to be 15,000 words shorter.

I flat denied it.

I explained to Dave that loading up my sentences with multiple consecutive subordinate clauses was lyrically Éirinn-esque.  I argued that every detail of an early scene was necessary if readers were going to understand what was happening in a later one.  I defended every last syllable on every page, claiming deletions would only diminish the integrity of my work.

Proximity was a big part of the problem.  We wrestle with words at close-quarters., but We have to step back to slash them.  I didn’t have the requisite distance.  I’d labored so hard to find exactly the right words, string them together with rhythm and grace, and make them sing, they had all become precious to me.

Don’t be precious.  That’s my new catch-phrase.  I stole it from John Walton’s article on creating devised theatre:

Don’t be precious:  Throw away your rehearsal plans if they’re not helping, give your best jokes to another actor, consider moving your final scene to the start, simplify the plot-line, and mercilessly edit your show to the shortest length possible. I’ve never regretted any cuts or changes I’ve made to a show; getting the rhythm right trumps everything.

Lyrical prose, colorful description, poetic phrasing all serve my purposes – but if an utterly exquisite, carefully-crafted, perfectly perfect bit isn’t needed, then it’s got to go.  No excuses.  No exceptions.  Highlight and delete.

I get it, I really do.  I get why It’s so  hard to cut. But – trust me on this – across that literary Rubicon is a better piece of writing.  The first deletion may be a wrench, maybe the second.  By the third cut, you realize you’re your surviving sentence-soldiers are standing up straighter, prouder, doing their jobs better.  No longer encumbered by weighty, unneeded gear and equipment, they’re picking up the pace and getting the damn story moving.

It’s like cutting back a plant, yeah?  Trimming a beard.  Snipping over-grown nails.  Cuts are welcome improvements.

Too close to your work to cut it?  Toss the sword to someone else.  No one else around?  Set the work aside for a while; and let time provide the distance.

Added bonus, the more you cut, the easier it gets to spot the excess.  Patterns emerge.   A multi-clause series is invariably better after throwing out a clause or two.  Run-on?  Swap a conjunction for a period; problem solved.  And when you find yourself struggling over-long on a recalcitrant sentence, try cutting it out.  Chances are you don’t need it.

Looks like this draft of Shadow’s Road is going to end up 9,000-10,000 words lighter – quite a bit shy of the mark Dave suggested.   Now I’ve got the hang of it, though, I’ll give the first Parts another pass, find more surplus to cull.  I’ve got a story to tell, here.  Can’t let words get in my way.