It's Not Personal, It's Editorial
Slaying my darlings
Let me start this again. If I cut you out of the novel, does it mean you never existed? Well, yeah. Stop complaining. You aren’t real now.
There was a time when I needed you, when you were the heart of the book, a way into a big, bold, complicated plot. You were the character that would shed light on the scientists’ domestic humanity, so much more interesting than the science itself. Even Einstein had a few wives to take care of him while he did what he did. Did she understand what he was trying to prove? Maybe.
But that was before you droned on and on, before you cried out for a theme of your own, one I couldn’t nail down. It’s just like me… I mean you… to stick yourself into someone else’s mold.
Damn, you were needy. “I don’t just live in his shadow. I’m not here to raise kids. I am a woman of substance with needs denied.” I know, I know, what’s any novel without desire, but that 30 last or so was unnecessary. It’s in three places!
In fairness, I started this book five years ago when we were all younger, pre-pandemic and desperate to weave a believable plot.
If you knew me at all, you wouldn’t talk to me like that. I conjured you. I can bid you adieu.
True, that scene was steamy. He was handsome, you were handsome, and the longing, oh the longing, but I couldn’t stop there. You had to become suicidal; he was swept up in a conspiracy. It became a wall of so many words to climb with no way to come back down. My mind works less like a tree and more like an overgrown hedge; scalable, but with places to perch.
I waited years before I took my red pencil to you. It’ll be better for everyone in the end, you’ll see. I will know what your character is really made of, even if it’s never explicitly acknowledged. The joy is in the weaving, in the wanting, in the--
Stop staring at me!
Yes, yes, I love all my darlings the same but you, like me, got long winded and whiny somewhere. Blah, blah, blah. You were the light; the moon was too bright. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
You’re more useful through their perspective than you ever will be on your own. It’s not personal, it’s editorial.
Or do you want me to scrap the whole thing: What’s five years of hard, soul exposing work in the face of a fictional character’s feelings? The story and its emotions will speak their own truth. Righteousness is the easy way out. Isn’t that the whole point of this novel?
You had a starring role back then, offered me a way inside this universe, a fictionalized version of what I wished I was—part mother to all, part hot wise owl. But I became you in many ways, and even to myself I sound like a sanctimonious loudmouth. An infant will parrot that smile back at you, but they don’t really mean it.
Wait. Wait. I have an offer. Do you want to be the catalyst from someone else’s perspective? You’ll speak your truth, out loud and to the others. Between calamities. I can make that work. Trust me.
Mean and tortured, she’s misguided all the way around. You’re the hall monitor; she’s sparking up in the bleachers after dark. She takes out her insecurities on whomever comes into the room, a line of business execs, and a trail of good looking lovers. People are a means and never the end. Exactly. Fun.
You’re nicer, and the others like you more. She needs you. Outright mean is one thing. Insecure mean requires accomplices. Be reasonable. Everyone wants a part and no one wants a supporting role.
It is not cheating to be taking notes on someone else. It’s due diligence. I know your journey and struggle. I’ll hold it close while I rip out the pages.
Enough of this. My story; my rules. Fantasy knows no reality and this isn’t about you. You’re not my kids or my husband—not even my writing group!
I am very tempted to describe the lines of panic on your face, but you are fading already. Please trust me. Sometimes I know what I’m doing.