Killing Your Darlings

The phrase kill your darlings refers to cutting characters, scenes, sentences, side plots, etc. that you love but which don't serve your story. The jury is out as to who first coined the phrase—William Faulkner or Arthur Quiller.

Good advice but darn hard to do. That’s why writers have editors. Editors possess the objectivity to know when ‘killing’ is necessary, even if writers don’t.

So it was with my new novel, Closer to Far Away. The story was inspired by a quaint little vignette I wrote with no purpose in mind, but which—once written—wouldn’t leave me alone. I really liked it, and though I knew it didn’t fit any genre, I was determined to turn it into something. My common sense said to file it and move on, and yet I stubbornly resisted.

Instead I fast-forwarded the characters eight years and picked up their story at that point. This evolved into a novel that echoed the vignette. Then having the vignette serve as the first chapter, I submitted the novel to Beverley Brenna, the editor at Red Deer Press.

She got back to me very quickly and—long story short—offered me a contract. There were a couple of catches. She wanted me to change the title, and she wanted me to drop the opening chapter. I dug in my heels about the title and she acquiesced, but I knew she was right about that opening chapter, even though I didn’t want her to be.

So I killed my darling vignette … almost. 

Today was supposed to be the book birthday for Closer to Far Away, but somehow it’s been dribbling into bookstores and libraries since late September. Some of you may even have read it already. If you haven’t, I’m hoping you will and that you’ll tell the world how much you love it—because I’m confident you will.

Seeing the novel find its way into print and knowing it was inspired by that vignette should have been enough for me to let that little snippet of writing go.

But I’m not a murderer.

So here it is for those of you who are curious to know where Closer to Far Away came from. This won’t spoil the book for you -- I promise. But it might add another dimension. Enjoy.

Vignette …

It was February and it was very cold. Five-year old Lucy May Barber stood on the front porch of her house and watched. Her breath came in steamy clouds, and she put her mittens over her mouth to trap the heat against her cheeks.

“Come in, Lucy!” Tom ordered from a crack on the other side of the front door. “If Mama sees you out there, you’re really going to catch it.”

“Why?” Lucy eyed Tom curiously. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re staring!”

“I’m watching,” Lucy corrected him.

“It’s the same thing, and you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s rude.” Tom opened the door a bit more so Lucy could see his frown completely. She wasn’t impressed. Tom was trying to mimic Papa, but he wasn’t very good at it. With his eyebrows disappearing under his hair, all he looked was surprised.

Lucy sniffed and turned back toward the little church at the end of the road and the black knot of people in front of it.

  “I’m paying my respects.”

“You don’t even know what that means,” Tom scoffed. “It’s just something you heard Mama say.”

He was right, but Lucy didn’t let on. She concentrated on the people instead.

“Tom! Lucy! Where are you?”

Lucy looked back at the door in time to see Tom’s eyebrows disappear again. Then Tom disappeared too, and Mama took his place. She swung the door wide.

“Lucy May Barber, what on earth are you doing standing in the cold? Come inside this minute.”

“I’m watching.” Lucy gestured toward the church.

Her mother glanced in the direction Lucy was pointing.

“It’s old Mrs. Witter’s funeral,” she said quietly as she steered Lucy inside.

“Did I know her?”

“No, Lucy, I don’t believe you did.”

“Those people standing at the church—did they know her?”

Lucy’s mother nodded.

“Are they sad?”

“I’m sure they are.”

“Why?”

Lucy’s question caught her mother by surprise, and she stopped helping Lucy out of her coat.

“Why?” she repeated the question. “Well, because they are going to miss her, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Lucy followed her mother to the lunch table.

Halfway through her soup, Lucy asked, “How old was Mrs. Witter?”

Her mother considered the question before answering. “I don’t know exactly, but quite old, I think.”

Lucy thought about that for a time and then asked, “Was she bad?”

“Heavens no. Why would you ask that?”

Lucy frowned. Something didn’t make sense. She took another spoonful of soup and ventured cautiously, “You said the good die young, Mama. If Mrs. Witter had been good, wouldn’t she have died a long time ago?”

Mama’s face relaxed into a smile, and Tom burst into laughter. Lucy’s cheeks became hot.

Her mother patted her hand. “That’s just something people say, dear. It doesn’t really mean anything.”

After lunch, Tom headed back to school and Lucy climbed the big staircase to her bedroom on the second floor. She scooped Mrs. Pick-a-Patch off the bed and wandered over to the window. Ripples of ice clung to the sill. She ran her finger along the smooth, cold bumps and then scraped at them with her fingernail.

Lucy gazed out her window. Flat fields of snow stretched to meet the dull white sky.

She looked toward the cemetery. The snow was so deep, only a few headstones and crosses poked through. But near the fence, a patch had been shoveled away, and a tiny circle of people huddled together on the clear spot as if it was an island and they were stranded on it.

The wind had started to blow, and Lucy watched the people turn up the collars of their coats and shrink inside. Then the snow began to fall—fat, lazy flakes at first, but soon a whirling haze of white Lucy could barely see through. That’s when the people left the cemetery.

But Lucy stayed at her window and watched. She was waiting for Mrs. Witter’s soul to fly up to Heaven.

The only problem was that Lucy had no idea what she should be looking for. Though she had heard about souls—Reverend Spence often included them in his Sunday sermons—she’d never actually seen one, and she had no idea at all how they got to Heaven.

If they indeed flew there, they must have wings, Lucy decided. Perhaps they looked like angels. Maybe that’s what she should be looking for. But strain her eyes as she might, Lucy saw nothing that looked like an angel on its way to Heaven.

Of course, the swirling curtain of snow didn’t help. Angels were white—everyone knew that—and Mrs. Witter’s soul could easily blend in with the snow and sneak up to Heaven without Lucy seeing. She peered harder into the white afternoon.

Then Lucy had another thought. What if Mrs. Witter’s soul wasn’t going to Heaven? If it was going the other way, Lucy mightn’t see it at all!

She shook her head. No. That couldn’t be right. Mama had said Mrs. Witter was a good person. Lucy squinted into the snow again.

But watching for a soul was hard work, and Lucy soon became tired of standing. She pulled her rocker to the window and sat down. Then she leaned back in the chair and rocked.

***

Lucy awoke with a start. She was stiff and cold. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she tried to recall why she was sitting by the window.

When she finally remembered, she peered anxiously out the glass.

The storm was over. The sky was blue, and the sun glistened on new snow. Lucy looked toward the cemetery where Mrs. Witter’s family and friends had stood. Once again the ground was white.

Lucy’s heart thudded in her chest. She’d missed it. Mrs. Witter’s soul had flown to Heaven while she’d been asleep, and she’d missed it.

She looked toward the cemetery once more—sparkling white snow against a blue sky—nothing more, except …

As Lucy watched, an up-and-down rainbow appeared. Reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and blues—like the rungs of a ladder—stretching from the ground far up into the sky. It was the most beautiful thing Lucy had ever seen.

And it was right above Mrs. Witter.

To introduce readers to Closer to Far Away, there will be a book launch where I'll profile some of the characters and read a passage from the story -- if I can manage it without crying. (This is not a sad book, but it has a lot of heart-string moments.) And of course, you will be able to get your own personally autographed copy of the book.

I hope to see you there.