Words We Take Out

 
A friend just told me about a revision she’s doing for someone who loved much of her novel, but felt a subplot distracted. My friend is a bit daunted – there’s a lot of chopping – but more excited, and consoling herself, since she liked many of the scenes that must be excised, that one day she may be able to use them in another work.

I’ve got lots of folders like that, with cut chapters, scenes, characters, and images. I’ve even saved certain sentences and hoarded words. Some of this may just be a way to make the cutting feel less sore or scratchy: it can be hard not to feel the cutting metaphor on your skin. But some of the saving is practical, too. The stacks mean I never have to face a truly blank page: hey, I have my stashes! And there was love in them as well as work, which can offer a nudge that’s almost a caress, for I’m getting a gift, even if I wrapped it myself. I’m not one to complain about where a present came from.

Some characters or scenes have met each other in new books, while some  images have been passed along through several works-in-progress without ever making it to a published page. Why do they still haunt me? Why do I still think they might have a place? As the years pass, I’m less sure that they’ll ever find a way into a book, but it doesn’t matter. I won't polish silverware I’m not going to use, but I like hauling out old scenes, putting them in place even if just to get put back in the cupboard. They remind me of something, and it’s more than nostalgia. Maybe there’s a color that needs to get in the corner of a room. Maybe it’s a piece of furniture, or someone’s old haircut, or weather or a mood I forgot, but not entirely. Writing always involves some patchwork, and often the old makes us see something entirely new.