So long, Salinger

It seems I am drawn to blog about the dead. I think this is my third or fourth tribute to the recently deceased. Maybe it's because the novel I am working on revolves in large part around a funeral, so death is frequently on my mind.

In any case, I couldn't avoid mentioning the passing of J.D. Salinger, author of the classic The Catcher In The Rye and famous recluse. I'm not one of these rabid Catcher fans who carries a worn paperback copy in their back pocket or anything. I read it once, quite a while ago, and thought it was excellent.

The passing of Salinger has caused me to pull it out and read it again. I'm not too far into it yet and I'm already loving it, such a strong voice and unique character. It's inspiring me. I can't get enough of the first sentence:

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

Part of me thinks it's sad that such a talented writer only published a few things and then shut himself away from society for the rest of his long life. But, the other part admires anyone who willingly walks away from fame and fortune.

In an article I read about his passing, he is quoted as saying, "There's a marvelous peace in not publishing. Publishing is a terrible invasion of privacy....I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure."

Interesting perspective, no?

Keep Bleeding

"If you cut me, do I not bleed?" So asks my manuscript as I hack and chop more than 20% of my hard work and inspiration to make the story tighter and more printable.

A word to the wise...If you invite a professional editor to join your writing group: BE PREPARED. Your rough drafts will bleed and scream, but then again you will also get very humbling and valuable advice on how to make your genius idea more marketable.
Yes, I have learned this very difficult lesson and was reminded again this week when I mentioned that I had only cut 12,000 of the 20,000 words an editor (who may or may not be interested in buying my book) asked me to cut and then send it.
It was an impossible task. How could I possibly send to oblivion 20,000 words that had been born of blood, sweat, and sleep deprivation, over months of my life? How could anyone ask me to do such a thing with no guarantee that it would pay off?

And yet...
It it finished. Well, at least 18,000 words anyway. I'm still searching out the lingering 2,000. The first shavings were not all that hard. In 100,000 words their is bound to be several superfluous passages. They were not hard to dump because they neither moved the story or the reader. But that only accounted for 8,000 words or so. Then I chopped out the extra dialogue. Places where my story crafting lens had zoomed in close for too long on a particular scene. There were chunks of dialogue that could be summed up in just a few sentences.

And then I went to my writing group meeting and over spinach dip and chocolate chip cookies, my trusted critics and friends said it was time to cut entire scenes and subplots. Complete threads of the tapestry had to be removed. That is when my manuscript began to truly bleed and my inexperienced, trepidation red pen became a surgeons scalpel to careful remove the less important organs without killing the entire story.

How do I feel about being asked to perform surgery on my own creation? Scared to death and a little sad. I hope that readers will never recognize the scars that I see in the manuscript. Like the airbrushed version of a photograph I hope they enjoy the more perfected version and that only the few initiated support personnel can look at it and say, "Oh yes I remember that detail, but you can hardly see the stitches. If I hadn't seen it before I would never have even noticed."
So I will swab the blood and present the supermodel version of my story, lean and airbrushed.