All weekend, I’ve been puzzling over a “what happened then” element in my new proposal. It’s been making me crazy because no matter how many notes I jotted down, how many creative naps I took, how many brainstorming sessions I had with John, it wasn’t coming to me. Then I decided to make some quick and easy marinara sauce for dinner and voila! In ten minutes, I had the missing piece in technicolor detail. I just needed to stop trying so hard and start living. That’s what I always tell new writers: you need to live life to be able to create. Sometimes I forget my own advice. So do you need a good idea? Start cooking!  

Idea-Stimulating Marinara Sauce

1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes with basil

5 shallots

1 clove minced garlic

2 T olive oil, divided

salt and pepper

1 tsp sugar

pinch red pepper flakes

1 bunch italian parsley, chopped

2 splashes of white wine, divided

1 pint mushrooms sliced

———

Saute the shallots in olive oil until translucent. Add garlic and saute a few more minutes. Pour in crushed tomatoes, s and p, sugar, pepper flakes and a splash of wine. Cook over low heat, partially covered, for about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. Meanwhile, saute mushrooms in olive oil for a few minutes, then add a splash of white wine and continue cooking till tender. Toss the parsley and mushrooms into the sauce and serve on penne pasta or chicken. And don’t forget to jot down those ideas! 

Well, there’s killing your babies, as I discussed a couple of posts ago. Then there’s burying them, and that’s what I’m doing with my Work-in-Progress. Some of you voted on titles for it (I was, for the time being, calling it The Glimmer Child), and you know how excited I was about it as I worked on the proposal. I realized a couple of days ago, however, that I was going to have to let this story go. I still love the concept, but as I worked on the outline, getting down to the nitty gritty details, I knew the story was too “out there” for me to write right now. I’m not abandoning it forever; it will be tucked carefully into the basket where I keep other proposals I’ve set free for the time being, to be revisited at a later date. The reason for this decision is career-related rather than emotional. Thousands of new readers discovered me with The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes and Before the Storm, and I’m afraid of disappointing them with a story that’s too much of a departure from what I’ve written in the past. After helping me weigh the pros and cons, my terrific agent left the decision to me, and I knew she’d support me regardless of my choice.

Even though the decision had to be made dispassionately, it wasn’t without emotional ramifications. I’ve worked hard on this proposal and the idea for the book has been with me nearly a year. It’s hard to let go of something you love–a story that feels like your baby and characters you’ve come to know and care about like family. I spent most of Friday night grieving the decision, and I still feel a twist in my heart when something reminds me of a treasured aspect of the story. But I woke up Saturday morning feeling strong and resilient and ready to create something new.

I’m at the beach for a week with Bren Witchger, and there is no better place for me to be as I go back to the drawing board. Bren’s at work on her current WIP, so we’re brainstorming, scribbling, and popping chocolate-covered espresso beans. We’re on the marsh side of the beach road this time. We can see the ocean between the houses across the street, but the view of the marsh is soothing and evocative and I love watching the water shift between low tide to high, when it comes through the grasses nearly to the stilts of our beach house.

I’m going back to work now. Some new folks are worming their way into my imagination, and I’m looking forward to learning their passions and fears and secrets. I’ll let you know how I make out as the week progresses.   

Oh, it hurts.

I believe it was Ernest Hemingway who coined the title to this post. He was referring to those wonderful turns of phrase a writer comes up with that, in the final analysis, simply don’t belong in the story and must go. It’s painful to chop a few beautiful lines from what you’ve written, but it’s sheer agony when it’s an entire scene–an entire, absolutely perfect, ingenious, stunning scene–that you ultimately realize  doesn’t belong in the book. 

This has happened to me more times than I care to admit. When I start working on a story, I often have a  dramatic scene pop into my mind. It’s usually an opening scene or even a prologue, and it’s crisp and provocative and often provides the spark I need to create the rest of the story. The problem is, as I do create the rest of the story, I often realize that that initial scene doesn’t belong. Sometimes I can see that for myself. Other times it takes a friend or editor to break the news to me.

Sometimes, though, it works. The very first images I had of Before the Storm were these two: a fire narrated by a special needs teenaged boy, and a teenaged girl sitting on the deck of a round beach cottage, trying to connect to the spirit of her dead father. I loved both these scenes, and they both made it into the final cut.   

Similarly, one of my early mental images as I wrote The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes was of a small, delicate and anxious woman coming onto the porch of her house to face a sea of TV cameras and microphones. That scene was cryptic, leading the reader to wonder “what is going on?” and it made it into chapter one. I find scenes like that incredibly yummy.                                       

However, I still remember the prologue I wrote in the first draft of my third novel, Secret Lives. The character Kyle was on a train and the reader is in his head as he dreads what will happen when he arrives at his destination. I loved that scene! I am happiest when I’m writing in a slightly gothic style–dark and mysterious and provocative–and that scene really fit the bill and helped me see all the scenes that were to follow. When I’d finished the draft though, my writing group told me it didn’t belong. I argued, pleading for its life, but to no avail. My group was right. The scene had given me the gift of the rest of the novel, but beautifully written or not, it served no other purpose. I killed it. Ouch.

So I am now writing the proposal for my new Work-in-Progress. A proposal generally consists of an outline and a few chapters. I wrote a page and a half prologue that is, in my humble opinion, a real winner. Gothic as all get out. Sure to make the reader wonder what the heck is going on. And a concise and pithy introduction to the main character. The only problem is, as I worked on the outline and the characters started doing their usual thing, shoving me around and telling me how I have it all wrong, the prologue was no longer fitting the story. I’m not yet to the point where I can plunge a knife in its heart. I’m going to see if I can rework it to fit. (There’s a chance I may rework the story to fit it. . . sometimes those babies are too stubborn to die). 

This will be my nineteenth book, and it still hurts to kill my babies. If you’re a writer, how do you pull the plug?