This is not the first scene of a dystopian novel. These were my opening statements when I put every chapter, sentence, and word of my novel manuscript on trial. If my words could not defend their space on the page, I handed down the maximum penalty: I deleted them.
To be fair, I stole this revision strategy (or a version of it) from author Chris Castellani (Leading Men, Viking 2019). Chris borrowed it from Francine Prose’s book Reading Like a Writer, where she attributes the advice to put “every word on trial for its life” to an unidentified friend. Good advice, it seems, is meant to be passed on.
For me, it all started, as most good things do, in the drawing room of a haunted thirteenth-century Irish castle. In June this year, I gathered with several other GrubStreet writers, including Chris Castellani and Alice Hoffman (Faerie Knitting: 14 Tales of Love and Magic, Simon and Schuster 2018) for a writing retreat.
As we worked in Kilkea Castle, one of the most haunted castles in Ireland, Alice challenged us to write a ghost story. Alice Hoffman, who I’ve always suspected has secret supernatural abilities herself (have you read The Rules of Magic and Practical Magic?) has this gentle, unassuming way of teaching. She sat with us on the comfy castle couches and wrote alongside us while we nibbled on scones, sipped tea, and explored our darker writing selves.
During Alice’s workshop, I developed a fully formed ghost story. I liked it, but it needed work. As a novelist, I usually write longer pieces and wasn’t sure how to revise my very short ghost story or if I even wanted to.
The following day, in that same drawing room, Chris led a workshop and challenged us to put every word we wrote on trial. That seemed a bit extreme. My novel in progress, a literary thriller, was 99,000 words at the time. How could I possibly put every one of those words on trial?
But my ghost story? It was only 1,000 words. That night I took Chris’ advice and put my ghost story on trial. Every single word. Why are you here? I asked each word. What is your purpose? I whittled it down to a 700-word flash fiction piece.
Our final night in Kilkea Castle, we all gathered around a fire in the dungeon, sipping wine and Irish whiskey, to share what we had written. I read my ghost story. It felt muscular and lean because I had burned off so much unnecessary language. I liked the growl and rumble of tight sentences.
But could I do that with an entire novel?
After I returned home from Ireland, I set a court date. I channeled Chris’ enthusiasm and put my entire novel on trial. For the first round of questioning, I called each chapter to the stand. (Please bear with me. I’m really enjoying my extended courtroom metaphor.)
What is your purpose? The answer on the chapter level must relate to plot. Does this chapter or scene either move the plot forward or fundamentally develop a character or relationship? If a chapter’s purpose was rooted in setting, mood, theme, or pretty language, I stopped and reconsidered. Would anyone miss you if you disappeared forever?
I love to visualize plot via line graphs, bar graphs, and spread sheets. When I put my scenes and chapters on trial, I examined where they fit on my super nerdy (but very colorful) plot charts. Does each scene impact the plot chart? Does it escalate tension or develop character in a vital way? Does something change between the opening of the chapter and the closing?
Defend yourselves! I yelled at my scenes. Several chapters and scenes buckled under my relentless questioning.
Killing my darlings hurt, but I steeled myself and showed no mercy. (You can read HERE about how I resisted killing a precious darling and how it almost broke me.) I slashed and deleted entire chapters. I imagined tossing offending scenes into the dungeon of Kilkea Castle.
After putting every chapter on trial, I was exhausted. I wanted to quit. But then I heard the cheery echo of Chris in my head. Put every word on trial.
I took a deep breath and a shot of Irish Whiskey.
I scrutinized every sentence. I challenged every comma, adverb, and adjective. What is your purpose? After reading and rereading my manuscript during this two-and-a-half-month-long trial, my head ached, my eyes burned, but I’d come this far, and I was hellbent on seeing this trial through to the end.
I decided to give my novel the last word.
I went back to page one and listened to the entire manuscript read aloud to me by my laptop. (If you use Word, go into System Preferences, click on Accessibility, then Speech. You can choose from several narrator voices. I’m partial to the ‘Samantha’ voice.)
Listening to my manuscript read aloud helped me call out repeated words and phrases, rambling, clunky, or choppy sentences. I noticed repetition in dialog and awkward phrasing I had not recognized on the page.
Every few paragraphs, I interrupted Samantha’s narration and cross examined suspicious sentences and words. Would anyone care if you disappeared forever?
As the judge in this trial, I occasionally invoked the right to impose lenient sentences on my sentences (paragraphs and words.) Some phrases are just pretty. They just are. Some make me laugh, or evoke a sense of wonder. Sometimes I fall in love with an adverb (gasp!)
But for the most part, I showed no mercy. When the trial wrapped up, there was blood on the floor. My 99,000-word manuscript emerged as a leaner 92,000-word document.
A Cheat Sheet for Putting Words on Trial
STEP ONE: Put your chapters and scenes on the stand.
- Why are you here?
- Would anyone care or notice if you ceased to exist?
- Are you vital to the plot?
- Are you crucial to developing character?
- Do you move the plot forward by building suspense?
- Do you create vital story questions that move the plot forward?
STEP TWO: Paragraphs, sentences, and words take the stand. [Read more…]