So far in my investigation of how I shortened my manuscript, I've explained the big picture concepts that allowed me to cut 35,000 words without changing the story, and I've delved into the nitty-gritty of some recurring opportunities for compression. To wrap up this series, I'll share a before-and-after excerpt.
A couple of years ago, during a previous round of revision, I made a similar post, and I considered using the same passage again. However, the new changes don't serve as the best example, so I've picked another section to look at. You can still check out that old post for an illustration of the ideas I've been talking about (as well as an illustration of the infinite repeatability of this process). And in case you're wondering, I chopped 65 more words from that scene, including the narrator sitting down and then a minute later moving to his wife's side, a pair of actions that struck me as glaringly unnecessary.
I selected today's excerpt because it shows off a number of the small-scale strategies I discussed for saying the same thing in fewer words. The scene also makes sense out of context, though I'm riddled with anxiety that out of context, every page of my novel seems ridiculous and uninteresting. You don't need any information to understand what's happening here, but I'll mention that the narrator is the son of the narrator from the scene I used before.
The original passage, 354 words:
Dad opened the door before I could knock. After a brief hug, he held me at arm's length to examine me. "You look well, Howie." The assessment was dubious. I was more out of shape than the last time he'd seen me, and I hadn't been sleeping enough.
"You too." We'd both recently had birthdays. At sixty, Dad was fit and retained a good head of salt-and-pepper hair. Even the bumpy nose that had once detracted from his handsomeness now added a distinguished touch. I, on the other hand, had just turned thirty-one and could already predict I wouldn't age as well as him.
He carried my suitcase inside. His condo still had the bare look of a recent move, though the divorce was a dozen years ago. We went through the small talk about my flight and whether he could get me anything, and then we hit silence. I'd been there a minute and a half. Whenever I arrived in Pittsburgh for a visit with Mom, the conversation didn't pause for hours.
"Well, I'll let you get settled in," Dad said. "And then I'm sure you'd like to eat. Any old favorite restaurants we should go to?"
Mom always cooked, so it was rare for me to eat out as a kid, and it was hard to imagine that any restaurant I remembered hadn't been replaced by a chain. "Wherever you like is fine."
Dad followed me to the guest room, unnecessarily. "It's really good to see you." He clapped me on the shoulder, a parody of fatherly affection. "I'm glad you decided to come."
Our conversation over dinner made me wonder why I'd bothered. Katherine kept insisting that if I got to know Dad as a person, I'd like him, but we had nothing to say to each other. His job was classified, so he couldn't discuss it. I developed software, and he didn't, so the details of my job were meaningless to him, even if I'd wanted to talk about the uninspiring supply chain management tool I worked on. We didn't share interests or hobbies. I doubted that he had any.
The edited version, 300 words:
Dad opened the door before I could knock. After the obligatory hug, he held me at arm's length. "You look well, Howie." The assessment was dubious. I was more out of shape than last time he'd seen me, and I hadn't been sleeping enough.
"You too." We'd both recently celebrated birthdays. At sixty, Dad was fit and retained a good head of salt-and-pepper hair. Even the bumpy nose that had once detracted from his handsomeness now added a distinguished touch. I, on the other hand, could already predict at thirty-one that I wouldn't improve with age.
We plodded through the small talk about my flight and whether he could get me anything, and then we hit silence. I'd been there a minute and a half. Whenever I arrived in Pittsburgh for a visit with Mom, the conversation didn't pause for hours.
"Well, I'll let you get settled in." Dad picked up my suitcase and led me to the guest room. His condo still had the bare look of a recent move, though the divorce was a dozen years ago. He clapped me on the shoulder, a parody of fatherly affection. "I'm so glad you decided to come."
I was only there because of my sister manipulating me into it, the way she'd done my entire life. Katherine kept insisting if I got to know Dad as a person, I'd like him, so over dinner, I made a real effort. But we had nothing to say to each other. His job was classified, and he couldn't discuss it. I developed software, and he didn't, so the details of my job were meaningless to him, even if I'd wanted to talk about the uninspiring supply chain management tool I worked on. We didn't share interests or hobbies. I doubted he had any.
A visual comparison, which astute readers requested last time (click through for a larger image):
The first point this example demonstrates is the benefit of time, because a couple of months have passed since I last went over this scene, and I see more changes I'd like to make. But I'll set those thoughts aside and focus on what's already here.
The largest deletion is the lines about where to eat dinner. Their purpose was for the narrator to think of his mother cooking, an idea that's significant in the story but not relevant or interesting at this moment, and to pile on to his disdain for his hometown, which is much better established by everything else in the chapter. The repetitive aspect made this an easy cut, especially since the restaurant question is also an unnecessary logistical detail. I find myself removing logistics from my novels constantly, no matter how many drafts I've already been through. I condensed the middle of this draft by several entire chapters because I felt too much time in those sections was spent on characters planning out the particulars of their lives. As in this example, I always intend those scenes to serve some additional story purpose, but too often the negotiations just aren't that compelling.
Another line I removed in my quest to weed out repetition: "It's really good to see you." The father's next sentence, "I'm so glad you decided to come," expresses the same sentiment, and it's stronger when not diluted by the other line.
I shortened this passage by 15%, but reduction wasn't my only goal. As with any editing pass, during this revision I worked to make the prose better. This excerpt includes a couple of instances where I replaced a dull verb with a stronger, more specific one: "had birthdays" became "celebrated birthdays" and "went through the small talk" turned into "plodded through the small talk". The sentence describing the condo moved down to a more logical spot, when the narrator is walking through the space and has time to take in the surroundings.
There's one entirely new sentence, about the sister's manipulation, but it's a consequence of deleting text somewhere else. Earlier in the chapter, I removed a longer chunk about the sister, and this was the important bit to keep in.
The remaining edits are all tweaks to make the text shorter or better. Notice my new favorite type of fix, the two expunged "that"s in the last paragraph. Also note (that) I left plenty of phrases and sentences intact. This is a late draft, so by this point I'm satisfied with much of the prose -- or at least I was until this fresh look suggested even more ways to shrink my manuscript.
Good Stuff Out There:
→ Pamela Burger reports on Women's Groups and the Rise of the Book Club: "Every book club member, male or female, interviewed for this article gave the same reason for joining: They wanted to read more, and they wanted to read books they wouldn't otherwise pick up. For many, reading more is a noble cause in and of itself. But book clubs provide more than exposure to new texts--they offer a social space in which individuals learn and grow through collective intellectual engagement." (Thanks, Book Riot!)
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