Butchering Your Darling

By Jaden Terrell

I recently had to do some edits for the publisher who is doing the German translation of my first two Jared McKean mysteries. The edits were for the first book (which had already been fairly extensively edited) and involved a subplot that I felt was integral to the development of my character and also for laying the groundwork for the second book. At first, it sounded like they wanted the entire sub-plot cut. Awhile later, thank goodness, I got the email laying out several options, none of which were as draconian as I had first feared. They all, however, involved cutting out some things I'd grown pretty fond of.

Who was it who said that, when editing, you have to kill your darlings? Anybody? That author was talking about those sections that seem like "especially fine writing." Here, I'm talking about the book itself. So what do you do when your editor asks you to butcher your darling?For me, there's a process not entirely unlike the seven stages of grief.

First Stage: Panic and Resistance, Cleverly Concealed

You don't want to come across to your publisher as someone who is belligerent, difficult to work with, and who thinks his or her every word is plated in platinum, so you speak calmly and ask reasonable questions designed to discover the extent of the butchery required and see if the darling seems likely to survive it. How extensive is this change expected to be? What exactly is expected? The mind is racing. What can I salvage? How can I do this if I lose that? Aloud you say, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that. Let me see what I can do...Of course, of course. I'll work on it and get back to you. By when, did you say?"

Second Stage: Panic and Resistance, Shared with Trusted Friends and Advisers.

In some circles, this might be known as whining. Keep it good-natured and don't go overboard with it, and your writer friends will give you the sympathy you deserve ("What? Are they crazy? That was my favorite part!") followed by some constructive suggestions about how to perform the butchery with the least amount of heartache. My go-to people were my critique group (thank you, Chester) and my agent (thank you, Jill), who asked me the question that saved the day: "What is absolutely no-compromise? What are the things you absolutely can't live without?"

Third Stage: Eat Chocolate.

Everyone knows a writer about to engage in plot butchery needs sustenance and comfort. If chocolate doesn't do it for you (what's wrong with you?!), try macaroni and cheese--or putting glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, or covering the wall behind your computer with glittery stickers of unicorns or racing cars. Whatever makes you happy.

Fourth Stage: Get to work.

In my case, I tried the publisher's first two suggestions (A, cut the subplot completely, B, have another character settle it offstage), but the story didn't feel complete. I worked the story and re-worked it. Keeping my agents question in mind, I cut the parts that I could live without (no matter how much I liked them). I settled on the publisher's third suggestion (keep the subplot but combine scenes and cut as much of it as possible) but was able to incorporate parts of the second into it by having a secondary character do some of the legwork.

Fifth Stage: Acceptance, and--dare I say it?--Pride in the Outcome

Hmm. This is...not bad. It's kind of like realizing your perfect baby has an extra toe you hadn't noticed. And...what's that? A blotchy birthmark you somehow missed. Somehow it feels less like butchery and more like surgery. You look back over it and realize that, while you miss some of the things you cut (after all, that birthmark shaped like the Statue of Liberty was kind of cool, wasn't it?), the book as a whole is much stronger.

I sent the revised version to my agent and to the publisher. Both were pleased with the result, and the best part was that even the suggestions that didn't work on their own helped me find the one that did. I tell myself that next time I'll remember this experience and skip straight Stage 4, but somehow I know where I'll find myself. Right back at Stage 1.

How about the rest of you? Any adventures in editing to share?

Little Voices

By Beth Terrell

I've been struggling with the third book in my Jared McKean series for awhile now. I had much of the plot laid out, and a number of chapters written, but it wasn't coming together the way I wanted it to. Then, a few nights ago, that little voice in the back of my head said:

Hey.

"Hey, yourself," I said, hoping I could brush it off and get on with my story. But no. Like the guy in the cartoons that opens his coat to sell you a dozen fake Rolexes, the little voice was not to be denied.

You know what the problem with this book is?

"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me."

The problem with this book is that it isn't a Jared book.

"What do you mean, this isn't a Jared book? Jared's my series character. I love him!"

Yup. But this ain't his book.

"Then whose book is it?"

It's Emma's.

"But...I don't like Emma."

Well, you'd better learn to like her, because this is her book. And it's not gonna work until you give it to her.

"But...what about Jared? I'm not done with him yet."

You know that other book you've been thinking about? The one about human trafficking?

"Yeahhhhh..."

That one's his.

"But..."

I'm tellin' ya, kid. This is how it's gotta be.

"But..."

Trust me.

So I sit back and think it over, and darned if all those plot problems I'd been having didn't start to fall right into place. Not perfect yet, mind you, but getting there. I thought about Emma. She's prickly and opinionated and obstinate, and we don't see eye to eye on much of anything, but as I dig deeper into her character, I begin to find more and more things to like about her. The story begins to come into focus.

I find this annoying, because a friend in my critique group had suggested some time ago that this not be Jared's story, and I didn't want to hear it then any more than I want to hear it now. She's a gracious soul, though, and probably won't spend too much time on I-told-you-so's.

I think of that beautiful opening scene I've written for Jared and realize it's the perfect beginning for "that other book, the one on human trafficking."

Told ya so, says the voice in my head.

I pretend not to hear. I have writing to do.

The Idea Well

By Beth Terrell

"Where do you get your ideas?"

It's a question that, sooner or later, every writer is bound to hear. In fact, just this week, Nathan Bransford (http://www.nathanbransford.com) asked his readership what had inspired our/their current works in progress, a question similar in spirit, if not in scope. And why not? I'm always intrigued by the workings of other writers' minds, by the spark that flashes when that perfect story idea flits past, and by the fact that an idea that sparks for me may be nothing but a bit of drifting ash to someone else.

Where do you get your ideas? I've heard writers give clever, facile answers:

"I get them from a factory in Poughkeepsie. I send then twenty dollars a month and they send me back ten ideas in a plain manila envelope."

"There's an idea well in my cousin's back yard. Whenever I need a story idea, I go out and pull up a pail full. I always find something I can use."

Others are more forthcoming:

"Newspaper clippings."

"Magazine articles."

"Sixty Minutes."

I think they all mean the same thing. Ideas are everywhere, fireflies on a summer night, stars in a winter sky, an infinite number of beautiful, scattered lights. One current work in progress was inspired by some inexplicable fears and behaviors my grandmother exhibited when she was suffering from dementia. As I attempted to understand what she was going through, I had the idea to write about an woman caring for her grandmother, whose "unreasonable" fears have their roots in long-buried memories. The caregiver never learns those secrets, but the reader does.

Another work in progress, the third in a series, was sparked by a conversation a friend and I had about a couple who created a garden in which thousands of small white wooden crosses represent lives lost to abortion.

Recently, I rediscovered a website I'd come across a few times before:
http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/index.html. This site is an online library of modern and historical crimes. There are also articles on criminal psychology, toxicology, and other topics useful to writers of crime fiction. Stuck for a plot? Skimming these stories about real-life criminals can spark dozens of ideas. What if Sweeney Todd had been born in Chicago in the 1930s? What if someone like Albert Fish took a resourceful child who knew how to fight back? How about a black widow story? What if there was a group of time travelers who kidnapped serial killers in their infancy and raised them in loving, nurturing environments, and what if an evil group of time travelers decided to kidnap some potential killers of their own--and for less benevolent purposes? (Yes, sometimes the idea fireflies lead us far afield.)

Ideas are everywhere. Whether you envision them as fireflies in a field or drops of water in a well, the source is not a factory in Poughkeepsie or in anybody's cousin's back yard. You are the source, and I am, and everything we read, see, or experience helps scatter the stars and fill the well. That is the beauty of writing.

The Mysteries of Exposition

by Jean Henry Mead

When your plot first unfolds, you have to decide how to spoon in backstory or exposition, which involves breaking from the main storyline to give your reader information relative to the plot. It’s the author’s way of telling the reader something rather than showing it.

Well-handled exposition provides perspective, dimension, and needed context that contribute to events in the present. A micro history, if you will. But exposition should be handled carefully. Comic strips and soap operas use the technique frequently, but novel characters should rarely use exposition to reveal past events, especially if they’re not relevant to the plot. Mystery novelists should write in a straight line with the story’s conclusion in mind, as though running a marathon with blinders. Forget those spectators on the sidelines. Always look toward the finish line.

An example of unnecessary exposition:

“Remember the key you found?”
“Which key is that?”
“Tied with a yellow ribbon.”
“Yes, I remember it well.”
“You said it was the key to your heart.”
“I’d been drinking champagne.”
“You dropped the key in my slipper.’
“Come now, Olivia, what’s the point?”
“Nothing, Derrick, nothing at all.”

If the above dialogue is a lead-in to a romantic scene central to the plot it’s fine, or if Olivia is planning to kill her lover, it’s okay to leave it in. Otherwise, delete it.

Dialogue that doesn’t contribute significantly to the plot should be eliminated, no matter how much you like it. When the first draft is finished and polishing begins, get rid of any dialogue that doesn’t characterize, provide limited exposition, or carry the plot forward. Any asides, cute expressions, and nonessential chit-chat need to go, no matter how cleverly written. Save them for the next novel and build a plot around them. Editors consider such nonessential dialogue “padding” and if your work is accepted in spite of padded prose, the copy editor will delete it for you. It’s better to do that yourself.

The Plot (Not the One in the Cemetery)

I’ve always felt that characters are more important than the plot, or the situation you place them in. But I certainly don’t mean to infer that plot is unimportant.

Plot is cause and effect, or the border of actuality. If someone makes your protagonist angry and he considers throwing a rock through the antagonist’s window, it’s not a plot unless he actually does the deed. His actions tell a great deal about his own character and determine whether the readers are going to care about him. The effect of his actions, or the reaction to the broken window, is what actually creates the plot.

A character’s thoughts and emotions cross over the line into action and reaction. But no action in itself can be considered plot if it doesn’t affect the outcome of the story. Plotting decides what’s important to your storyline. If the action doesn’t apply directly to the resolution, leave it out. Going off on tangents only confuses the reader and makes her impatient to get on with the story. Sure, you can have subplots but they had better tie in eventually to the main storyline and reach a resolution before the book’s conclusion.

Ansen Dibell says in his book, Plot, that “one of the forces may be external to the main character: a villain, an opponent, a set of circumstances, a feature of the environment or of the landscape. Or both forces may be within the protagonist; the fear of doing something and wrestling with the need to do it; a sense of injury wrestling with love or admiration, as with a person of any age trying to come to terms with a demanding parent.”

A writer’s job is to convince the reader that what's happening in the plot is important not only to the characters involved, but to the writer as well. If the writer doesn’t really care about the characters, the reader definitely won’t.

Struggling to stay alive, such as the young men in Golding’s Lord of the Flies, is the external form of the characters' struggles. But the battle of fear, courage and distrust of the unknown is the internal struggle that has to be addressed to ensure that your story is both gripping and convincing. There should be both an outer and inner plot which mirror or reinforce the other. They may even be in stark contrast, creating an even mightier struggle for the protagonist to overcome.

As one wise veteran writer once observed: "a plot scene should ideally contain two antagonistic characters who duke it out until one scores a knockout at the end of the scene."