Mark Twain once said something about what makes a great novel, how what makes it great is not as much what's in it, but rather what the author left out. Still, the most painstaking part of writing a book is the leaving out. Emily Dickenson once refered to her editor's pen as a surgeon's knife. I like this metaphor, because as painful as it is, ultimately an editor's skillful cuts breathes life into a story. It is like uncluttering a house and feeling as if all your memories are being lost, and then when it's finished -- deep sigh -- you realize you can breathe, your shoulders are light, and while the stuff is gone the memories are still crisply there.
An example: On page 70 of Drawing in the Dust there is this sentence: "It is like being in the parking lot of an amusement park, where I can hear all the noise of elation just a shoulder ride away." In the original draft I sent to literary agents (and this is embarrassing to share!) the passage was: "It's like being in the parking lot of an amusement park, I can hear the screams of elation, the roar of the roler-coaster, the singsong, bing bong, ping pong, jank in the box crank ditties, the boing-oing-oing of suprises on springs, and the mechanical 'You're a winner!' and the whining whistle pop 'try again,' animated giggles, bee bee snap of guns at the duck shoot, all just a shoulder ride away if they'd only hurry up and lock the car." Clearly, this was a body of text desperate for surgery. However, one of the things I see people struggle with most in writing is that they edit as they write, instead of letting themselves enter fully into the moment they're creating, allowing themselves to hear and taste and smell and touch every little thing in that moment. In the end, yes, it is healthy for the book and its readers to let fall good measure of the singsongs and bing bongs to the cutting room floor, because the exuberant spirit of the writing moment endures. All I really wanted to say with "shoulder ride away" was that Page misses her father at this moment. It's him, the owner of the shoulder that had carried her to such cotton-candy wonderments, that she misses, linking her grief over his death to the underground cistern.
I've learned a lot about the cutting room floor. There was a passage I did however keep trying to sneak back in, but it kept getting snipped. I agree it slowed the book a bit. A little too sermonic? Still, I like it. I still imagine Page and Mortichai having this little conversation in a private place, amidst long stripes of moonlight and shadow. I'm pasting it here...I'd love to know what you think...
We walk through the dark orchard. Moonlight sifts through the weave of branches above us. Tears roll from my eyes and we step gingerly through the night. "What are you thinking?" he asks.
"I am thinking about the rock in which Excalibur was stuck. Do you know the story?" I say.
"Of course. Excalibur was a sword that was stuck in a rock, and only the one who was pure of heart would be able to pull it out. Warriors tried to pull it out, but it was Arthur, a young boy at the time, who was able to withdraw it effortlessly." he says. "Why are you thinking about the rock?"
"It was very brave of the rock to finally release Excalibur to King Arthur. I am thinking that it is brave to let go of a pain that is a part of you, to let go of the pain that defines you. With the sword stuck inside, princes and kings come to visit her. They put the sole of their royal slippers against her cold side for some leverage while they tug and yank at the sword. And she hangs onto that sword with all of her might, just to prolong the contact. But when she lets go of the sword, she is nothing but a rock. How tragic for the rock that she mistakes the struggle for relationship. The princes and kings are not thinking of her at all. In fact, they would blast her to bits if thought it would help them get Excalibur back! She is a bother, a burden. A boulder. She is a dead thing. A stone. She has deluded herself into believing that they care for her, when in truth all they care about it that penetrating sword. All they care about is getting that thing out of her so they can stab it into soft flesh somewhere else. Poor little rock. She released the sword to Arthur because she thought he was gentle and kind. No one thinks of her sacrifice. How can a rock ever be certain that a boy, despite his letters, isn't only there for his sword?"
Mortichai laughs. "What did King Arthur know of rocks? He only cared about the sword. But Moses was a man who knew about rocks. The Bible refers to God as the Rock. You know Deuteronomy chapter 32? The Rock! His deeds are perfect!"
"He set him atop the highlands...and fed him honey from the rock and oil from the flinty stone..." I add.
"Arthur didn't understand that the rock was not cold. It had honey inside. You're right. Kings and princes don't love rocks the way that sculptors and prophets and archaeologists love rocks. But this boy is not here for his sword, I can promise you that. This boy is here for honey."
Nice Post. I searched the whole net for something like "The Cutting Room Floor -- Advice for Authors Who Love Words - Zoe Klein". Thank you very much, it had helped.