Cutting the Crap

Well, call me the mad Axeman of Arleston! I've just come back from the annual Wrekin Writers Retreat where normally people shut themselves away and write, write, write.

I've been deleting. Furiously. Ruthlessly. At 130,000 words, my novel was about 30,000 words too long - so I was in the same boat as Simon (apologies for the boat reference there, Simon...)

Any thoughts that it might be cathartic were misplaced. It was painful. I'd already cut it from 145,000 to 130,000 by removing the adverbs and the 'nodding'. I needed to do something drastic. I had to delete several characters, a couple of chapters and completely remove all the viewpoint scenes of my detective in order to hit the word limit. I think I'll miss the torture scene the most.

However, in 4 days I'd deleted 27,000 words, and over the past couple of days since I've been back, I've excised another 3000. I've even got so tuned into useless words that I know I can go back to the beginning and delete more words from the first 20 chapters. No more 'long hair tied back in ponytails' (short hair can't go into ponytails!) or 'quite' or 'suddenly', and why 'climb the steps to the street' when you can just 'reach the street'?

Hurrah - it is now just under 100,000 words!

But hold the champagne for a moment - I now need to re-read the thing to make sure it still flows, and my latest reader suggested my main character wasn't sympathetic enough, so let's get another 5000 words out so I can add some more for character development.

Why the hell not?

When I'm done, it will be leaner, tighter, and pacier and god-dammit sellable!

But I am going to miss some of it, so here it is, for posterity, in DVD-special edition fashion, the Directors' Cut, my favourite Deleted Scene... for over 18's only...

---

He became aware of the pain in his eyes first. They were stinging. A chronic throbbing and slow burning had replaced the needle-sharp agony from the pepper-spray. He blinked at the bright light set to shine in his eyes and saw he was tied to an office chair. He was alone. The room looked like a workshop. He could smell the metallic tang of motor oil. A workbench nearby was adorned with tins and cardboard boxes containing bolts and tools. He pulled at his restraints. His hands were pulled behind the seat and secured at the wrists by cable-ties, which cut into him as he tried to work them loose. His ankles were similarly bound, with another tie securing them to the central shaft of the chair. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t gagged, which worried him. They obviously weren't concerned about any noise he made.
He started counting, needing some way to measure the passage of time. It also helped to distract him from the discomfort of sitting in such an awkward position, and what they might do to him. He had reached six hundred and thirty when a door in the darkness beyond the lamp opened, silhouetting two men briefly before it closed behind them.
‘You’re awake then?’
Anderton squinted up at them.
‘You guys are under arrest.’ said Anderton baldly.
They laughed and Anderton smiled tightly, too scared to make more of an effort. The speaker stepped into the light. He was a brutish man, completely bald with a face that had seen numerous knocks and fractures.
‘The lady is going to eat you for breakfast, pig’ he said, leaning close to Anderton, who recoiled at the stale smell of tobacco and coffee.
‘What do you want?’ asked Anderton, trying to remember his training. He was supposed to agree with anything they said.
The man stood up and gestured to his companion, taller and thinner than the bald man, with a weasely face. He was carrying a large tool-box which he set on the worktop and opened.
‘You’ve been snooping around a little too much,’ said the bald man conversationally as he and Anderton watched the thin man take out a pair of tin snips from the tool box and set them carefully on the bench. Anderton hoped the brownish stains on the blades were rust. The bald man carried on talking as his colleague took more items out of the box – a pair of pliers, a hacksaw, a clawhammer…
‘You see, you should have done as you were told and dropped the Trent case.’
Anderton listened mutely, his legs felt like they were running out of his trousers and bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.
‘But no, you had to keep on didn’t you, and found out about Frank. She was very upset when he had to dive under that train like he did.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Anderton blurted out, unable to tear his eyes away from the tools on the table.
‘Well it would be nice to think so,’ said the bald man in a disturbingly reasonable voice, ‘but we have to make sure. Now I won’t lie to you – this is going to hurt a fucking lot, but you can make things a lot easier on yourself if you tell us who you’re working for, what you know, and who you’ve told.’
‘I don’t know shit!’ spluttered Anderton, ‘I’m not working for anyone, and I’ve not told anyone anything! Honest! I was just following that hooker about. I figured the department got it wrong and I wanted to get some kudos by proving it.’
The man made a clucking sound in the back of his throat, ‘I’d like to believe you. You seem like a decent man, but I figure you’re not levelling with me completely. I’m afraid I’m going to have to hand you over to my associate for a while.’ He gave a nod to the thin man, who turned back to the table, his hand hovering over the line of tools, deciding which one to start with.

--- End ---