editing a mouth
and a manuscript
Nope, this isn’t a post about eliminating the f-word in writing (though I did do a search on one of my recent manuscripts as a routine check for repetitive words—eliminating a handful of fucks). No, this post you might file under “Do we really need to kill our darlings?” Can’t we simply pack new material around them and send them back into service?
My thoughts revolved around this question as I sat (patiently) in the dental hot seat, numbed and rubber-dammed, whilst the dentist jack-hammered my old crown and new decay from a battle-worn, upper right molar. “Good thing we got to this in time,” he muttered. “Not much tooth left here.”
Once he finished the drilling, and sucked out all the bacteria-laden crud, I sat for another 45 minutes while my new crown cooked in the dental Suzy-Bake-Oven—during which time I mistakenly glanced at my X-Ray, which loomed on a giant screen to the side of the chair. There it was—the nub of a tooth, staring at me like a bitch. Stupid toothlet.
“Eventually,” said the dentist, as he Gorilla-glued the enormous crown in place, “this’ll fall out, and you’ll need an implant. Might last six years. Or fifteen. Hard to tell.”
How reassuring!
But back to killing your darlings versus fixing them. As a developmental editor, one of the things I assess is the degree to which a given scene or character supports—or fails to support—the story’s arc as a whole. Not merely from a plot perspective, but whether the element works in terms of pacing and/or character development. How much heavy lifting does it do? Does it set up something crucial or significant to the storyline down the road? Occasionally, I might suggest that a character could be combined with another character. Or eliminated entirely. Sometimes, a character is simply in the way. Or, should be relegated to a non-POV status.
This is especially true if the character does not act as a primary obstacle (read, antagonist) to the protagonist’s goal, or as a catalyst to an emotional epiphany (read, love interest). Secondary characters (much like my intact wisdom teeth), often just fill space without doing any work. They may be clever, or act as a vehicle for the author’s brilliant repartee (always a red flag), but do little to generate reader intrigue, emotion or satisfaction.
Scenes, imho, should build narrative energy. Should plant questions in the reader, and enroll her in the puzzle that is your book or story. Always creating energy, never completing it (until the end).
Yes, friends, I was ruminating on this conundrum as the dentist edited my troublesome mouth, bolstering the bad tooth for its continued inclusion on my dental roster—its eventual retirement deemed a certainty, but still necessary for mastication. “Thank you Doctor,” I said, as I fumbled for my credit card (two grand!). “For not giving up on my molar just yet.”
I wish for you, dear readers, a tooth-decay-free summer, and the courage to know when to yank your darlings from your WIP.
Great perspective, Suzy. Being the 7th of 9, Irish Catholic children, in an 11 person household, by the time I was six, I had a mouth full of decay. But my parents got my teeth fixed and I had numerous molars filled with mercury filling. Then, when I was 20, in 1986, I had about $1,500 worth of work done. A lot at the time. The dentist, a Dr. Robert Jones of Woodstock Street told me, "By the time you're about 45, you'll lose all your back molars." When I asked why, he told me that I wouldn't have the bone left in my jaw and he just suspected that I would.
Well, I decided that I'd take great care of my teeth that year, and I did. I still have ALL of my teeth, but a month ago, I went to the dentist to have my teeth ex-rayed and cleaned. It had been about three years. They took ex-rays and then the dentist told me that my two back molars on my lower left hand side were... "loose." I was horrified. Loose? How could that be?
"They're loose?"
"Yeah! They're loose!"
He wasn't very nice but he was young so...
"But why are they loose?"
"Well, on that side, you just don't have enough bone."
"Will they have to come out right away?"
"Not right away, but in time, yes. We'll just play it by ear for now."
Dr. Jones said I'd lose all my back molars at 45 and I'm now 59, and I still have them, so I'd say that is a victory. But I was surprised how sad this made me feel. Like I'd be losing this integral part of myself. I know that if they come out, I'm going to keep them. I felt sad and strangely moved, thinking of losing these two old teeth that are about 40 percent mercury filling, like losing a pet that you've always been fond of.
After the dentist left the room, I handled both teeth and by golly, they're a little bit loose. Certainly not like my other teeth, which seem to be doing fine. I'm not looking forward to it, because I know it's going to make me feel really down. There's no way around it, aging is full of unexpected surprises. Like feeling genuine sadness that two of your molars, that you've had your whole life are going to make their departure one day and end up in a box on your office desk.
Wow, you read my mind today! This came at JUST the right time as I wrote the opening of the book this morning (although who knows if that will stand) and then found myself befuddled as to what the next scene is. Also, somewhat horrifyingly, I asked Rene in an email, What is a scene? Ahhahahaeeeeeeowwww! (Of note: I didn't expect her to answer...I can ask Uncle Google to start...but I was expressing the honest truth of my greenness. Also, I really didn't know the crux of a scene but now, thanks to your message, I have some of the beating heart of the matter.) THANK YOU, Chief Editress. Obviously, I'm not delighted about your dental visit but glad we have the technology to help. <zipping mouth about costs of health and dental care in this country> Love to you!