The Cutting Room Floor

I'm back to the grindstone with Boundless, working on a new round of edits. And I'm preparing for my son's grand debut into kindergarten. And I'm prepping for two classes that I am teaching at Pepperdine, also starting next week: my Intro to Creative Writing class and a YA lit class that I've never taught before and therefore have a ton of extra prep work to do. And I am writing a short story for an anthology. I have a very long interview to write up. And reading a friend's manuscript. And a bunch of other stuff.

In other words, I just got really freaking busy.

So, in the midst of all this craziness, I am coming back to Boundless with the intent to cut at least 5,000 words. At least. Whole scenes are hitting the cutting room floor. Whole scenes, people!

Trimming an entire scene always hurts like a paper cut.

In the past, I've taken some consolation in the fact that the deleted scenes from my books can be made available in different ways. I can use them as exclusive content for the Young Adult Scavenger Hunt, which I do twice a year, and there are a few other sites where my cut stuff has ended up since Unearthly was published. It makes the cut sting a bit less, knowing that even though the scene wasn't good or important enough to make it into the book, that doesn't mean that nobody will ever see it. Deleted scenes are fun!

But here's what's bugging me today:

Hmm, where to begin? Okay. Here goes. I try not to read reviews. I am getting better at it, too, the not-reading-reviews thing, I mean. I hardly ever check Goodreads anymore, because I ultimately think that it's not good for me as an artist. If I read too many reviews I start thinking differently about my story, not for the sake of the art, but for the sake of people pleasing. I start having imaginary conversations with people I don't know at 2am, where I say to them, pleadingly, "Yes, yes, I know that it's a love triangle, technically, but really, if you'd just examine the entire thing more closely, you'd see that it's not a real love triangle. . ."

It makes me think about Daniel Radcliffe during an interview, when he was asked, "Do you read what people say about you?" and he immediately responded, "No. That way lies madness."

Yes. Reading your own reviews=madness. I get that. I try to resist the temptation. Most of the time.

So imagine me this morning, sitting down to chop away at my current manuscript. I work for a while. I check Twitter. I check my email. A Google alerts comes up, which alerts me to the fact that somebody has just reviewed Unearthly 2.1. Wha?????! I think. But no, mustn't read a review, I think. But what the heck is Unearthly 2.1?

I click the link. Yes, it's true. There is an Unearthly 2.1, a cut scene from Hallowed. 252 people have rated this scene, and something like 30 people have reviewed it.

My first thought is, Cool, 252 people have read my deleted scene!

My next thought is, Wow, there are about 20 people who really don't like this scene.

My next thought is, Oh come on, people. It's a DELETED scene. Which means it didn't make the cut. It wasn't good enough. Relax! There are real scenes, IN THE BOOK, so go read those.

And I'm back to having imaginary conversations with people I don't know.

Sigh. Well, that's why I avoid reading reviews, isn't it? I remind myself. No biggie. Except now, when I go back to work on my Boundless manuscript, I think, well, this scene has to go, but is it good enough to ever see the light of day? Because if I release this scene, it will probably get REVIEWED.

This makes me want to revise the scene I'm going to cut. Which is so not the point of cutting extraneous scenes. And so not a good use of my time.

And, ultimately, it makes me less likely to want to share my deleted scenes. I cut them because they weren't good enough. To cut them and then have people criticize them for not being good enough is a bit like pouring lemon juice in my paper cut.

Ouch. Ouch, I say.

Now, I also want to make a few things clear. Prepare for the disclaimer:

1. Goodreads is good. As an avid reader, I adore Goodreads. As an author, it kind of terrifies me, but that's okay. That's natural. As an author, I should be scared of Goodreads. But I am 100% glad Goodreads exists. In fact, I attribute Goodreads to a big part of Unearthly's success. To date Unearthly has 3,781 reviews (and over 25,000 ratings), so many of them good. People are talking about my books, and I am so grateful that there is a place like Goodreads where they can talk about my books.

2. I think people, on Goodreads and elsewhere, have an absolute right to their opinions, and should be able to write whatever they want in their reviews. Period. I have imaginary conversations with some of my negative reviewers, but never in a million years would I ever dream of actually communicating with the writer of a negative review. They deserve to be able to voice their opinions without being confronted by the authors or their friends. (I do, however, sometimes think wistfully about the old days when all the critics ran in the same social circles as the writers and occasionally Hemingway liked to quote a critic's bad review back to him at a party and then punch him in the face. There was a kind of accountability for what you said, back then, before the basic anonymity of the internet.)

3. I most likely will release more deleted scenes, not to worry, because my publisher thinks it's good publicity and because, at the end of the day, I still like those scenes, and it makes me happy to be able to share them with people who will get a kick out of reading them. Which leads me to. . .

4. Maybe I'm overreacting. I am willing to consider this possibility. Maybe this whole post is a kind of knee-jerk reaction to the surprise of being reviewed on something I didn't expect to be reviewed on.

So tell me, what do you think? Are reviews for deleted scenes a good thing? Do you think this practice will make authors more hesitant to release deleted scenes, or is it just another sign of the technological age we live in, that we get to see and judge all content, not just what makes it into the pages of a print book? What should become of all that extra stuff on the cutting room floor?

Unearthly deleted scene

I thought it might be time to reveal one of UNEARTHLY's many deleted scenes. Most of these scenes were cut because of a single big change in the story: originally I had Clara and her family move to Jackson in August, just before the school year began. So I wrote about Homecoming week--and I based what they did on JHHS' actual homecoming week activities, culminating with the Powderpuff game and the Homecoming dance. Clara sets Wendy up for a date with King Brady from her history class. Clara herself gets asked to the dance by Jason Lovett.

My editor thought, and rightly so, that August to the next August was just too long a time to pass between when Clara arrives in Jackson and when the fire actually takes place. So she suggested that I have the Gardners move to Jackson in January. She also thought (and again, totally right!) that there shouldn't be two formal dances in the book.

So I rewrote the entire beginning of my book to take place in winter. And I cut Homecoming Week and the dance, and ended up cutting an entire side-story where Wendy starts dating the captain of the football team and ends up breaking up with him. Poor Wendy. In my editor's words, "Wendy always gets shafted." Her scenes so often get cut.

So, without further ado, here is the Powderpuff game, two entire scenes with Wendy that ended up on the cutting room floor. Enjoy.

*****
UNEARTHLY, first draft, Powderpuff game

Wednesday after school, Wendy hunted me down in the girl’s locker room to tell me the shocking news: she’d been asked to the Homecoming dance by Brady Hunt!

“Wow,” I said, watching her face carefully.  “I guess you’re going to need my dress.”

“Yes, please,” she said.  Her smile was genuinely happy.

 So Tucker hadn’t narced on me.

“I still have the potato and the needle, if you change your mind about the earrings,” I teased.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Whoa, I was only kidding,” I said.

“It’s just, I didn’t even know that he’d noticed me,” she said.  “It’s weird.”

“Never look a gift date in the mouth,” I said.  I pulled a bright orange football jersey over my head.  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into playing football.”

“The Powderpuff game is only once a year,” she said.  “It’s fun.  Wait until you see the boys dressed up like cheerleaders.”

I had to admit that sounded funny.

“But don’t expect me to do much,” I said.  “I don’t know anything about football.”

“It’s not hard,” she said, as if she hadn’t grown up watching football.  I’d watched exactly one football game in my life, one of Jeffrey’s back in California.  Mom and I had both been hopelessly confused about when to cheer.  Being strong and fast wouldn’t help me play this game if I didn’t understand the rules. 

“Tucker’s not a cheerleader, is he?” I asked.

Wendy snorted.

“No way.  He’s out of town with the rodeo team.”

That, at least, was good news.

“Come here,” she said, grinning.  She smeared two black lines across my cheeks, then laughed.

“You’re one mean running back,” she said, dragging me over to the mirror.  My hair chose that moment to slip out of its ponytail.  I blew a strand out of my face.

“Kay Patterson’s knees will be quaking with fear when she sees us,” said Wendy.

“We’re playing against Kay?”

“Yep,” she said.  “She’s on the black team.”

I grinned at Wendy, reached for the black face paint to mark her cheeks.

“Bring it on,” I said.

#

Christian was a cheerleader.  When he came out onto the football field with the other boys he was wearing a tiny white tank top with a makeshift JHHS written on the front in marker, and an orange and black cheer skirt, unzipped in the back because it obviously didn’t fit.  Someone had pinned the front of his hair to the side like bangs, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing lipstick.

Somehow, he still managed to look hot.

In spite of the fact that I didn’t have any idea what I was doing, I had fun.  I took the ball when it was passed to me, threw it to my teammates when I saw an opening, jogged around where they seemed to want me to go, tried to tag the other side when they had the ball.  I didn’t run too fast, or try too hard.  My mom was watching, after all.  I could hear her cheers from the sidelines.

It was all going well until the fourth quarter, when we started to lose the game.  I wouldn’t have really cared about that except that Kay was so happily winning.  She always seemed to have the ball, always seemed to be doing exactly the right thing.  She looked amazing, cheeks flushed, hair dangling in one long, looped curl from her ponytail, eyes bright with victory.  Not to mention that every time she made the tiniest little move, I could hear Christian cheering like she’d won the World Series or something. 

It shouldn’t be legal, I thought, for anyone to be that perfect.

It would get on any girl’s nerves.

Then she actually tackled Wendy during a pass.

Whistles blew, and one of the coaches yelled a warning to Kay.

“Hey,” I protested, running up to help Wendy to her feet.  “I thought this was tag football, not tackle.”

“Sorry,” said Kay lightly.  “I forgot.”
               
“Don’t worry, I’m tough,” panted Wendy.  But Kay didn’t hear her.  She was already running down the field.  Wendy looked at me and shrugged and gave this pathetic little smile, and I kind of lost my head.  I’d show her a tackle.  On the next play, I made certain to knock Kay down just hard enough to knock the wind out of her for a minute.  Of course she was furious, but too breathless to make a fuss about it yet. 

Then something unexpected happened. 

Somebody shouted my name.  I turned.

Suddenly I had the ball in my hands.  I looked up, startled, right into Kay’s brown eyes.

Wouldn’t it be great, I thought, if I could just win this game right now?  Leave Kay in the dust, for once?

The clock was about to run out.  I glanced toward the end of the field.  It didn’t seem too far away.  There was a clear path, if I ran fast enough.

And I knew I could run fast enough.

I dodged Kay easily and then sprinted down the field.  It seemed like everyone from both teams was running toward me.  The crowd began to cheer wildly.  Even the girls on the other team were screaming.

I stretched my legs and ran, tucking the ball under my arm the way I had seen Jeffrey do it that one time.  The rest of the world slowed down.  I could feel the crisp fall air on my face.  My hair was out of its ponytail again and trailing behind me.  The grass under my feet smelled freshly cut.  The mountains in the background glowed a peachy gold, lit by the setting sun. 

I was over the goal line.  The noise from the crowd peaked in a big surge.  Everyone was standing on their feet, shouting.

So this is what it feels like when Jeffrey wins a game.  Not bad.  I was starting to understand why he did it, why he refused to be anything but spectacular.  It was a great, superior feeling.

Then I saw Kay’s face as she ran up the field toward me, and I knew immediately that something was wrong.  She was smiling.  Not just any smile, but a full, gloaty, victorious sort of smile.  I looked around for Wendy.  I spotted her much farther back, standing with her arms hanging limply by her sides, staring at me with an expression I didn’t understand.

I hadn’t run that fast, had I?  So fast that I was suddenly freaking everybody out?

I spun around, looking from face to face.  The girls in the orange shirts, my teammates, were looking at me in disbelief, shaking their heads.  The girls in the black shirts were laughing.

I looked to the bleachers where the crowd was still standing.  Jeffrey was laughing, clutching at his sides like some stupid cartoon character.  Mom’s mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.  I saw Christian, Christian in his cheerleader getup, running toward Kay on the field.  He reached her, shouted something, and then lifted her up and spun her around in the air. 

He was laughing too. 

In a flash I understood what I had done.

I had run in the wrong direction.  I had just scored, all right.  For the opposing team.  I’d lost the game.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.  I stared at the football in my hands, then let it drop from my fingertips.  It bounced away on the grass.  I looked again for Wendy but she was walking away, they all were, my entire team walking off the field toward the school. 

I couldn’t go back to the locker room now.  Maybe not ever.  I looked up into the stands and met Mom’s eyes.  She grabbed Jeffrey by the arm and started to tow him toward the parking lot.

I needed to get out of there.  I forced myself to walk slowly off the field, keeping my head down.  I didn’t know where Mom had parked so I just picked a row of cars and started to wander down it.  My vision blurred.

Mom pulled the car up next to me.  I got into the back seat.

“Seat belt,” she murmured.

I fumbled with the seatbelt, finally heard it click, then slumped down and turned my back to the window.

Jeffrey coughed to cover a laugh.

“A little sensitivity please, Jeffrey,” said Mom in a low voice.

“It’s okay,” I said.  “Let him laugh.”

Someone knocked on the car door from the outside, startling me.  It was Wendy, still in her orange jersey, a big grass stain on the front from when Kay had tackled her.  I hesitated for a few seconds.  Then I rolled the window down.  I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but the second I opened my mouth to speak a huge lump rose in my throat.  To my horror I started to cry.

“Hey,” she said, reaching through the window and touching me on the shoulder.

I shook my head.

“It’s all right,” she said.  “It’s just a game.”

I nodded miserably.

“I guess I’ll be the last one picked in P.E. from now on,” I tried to joke in a shaky voice.

She laughed.  Invisible or not, she was a true friend.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.  She stepped back, and Mom drove away from the school.  I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Christian had run to Kay and lifted her up like that, twirled her around and set her down again, smiled at her like he was about to kiss her.  Both of them still laughing at me.

That did it.  I was definitely never going back to school.

*****
The next scene, I will mention, she was back at school. Hee hee.

Wow. Reading that over again today I am struck by a lot of things. Like wow, that was a long time ago. Unearthly has changed so much since then! I've changed so much as a writer since then that it reads a bit primitive to me now.

Cavewoman Cynthia writes football scene. *grunts.

But seriously. It amazes me how the simple act of writing and revising can change you from the inside out.

You might have noticed that the book was in past tense back then. About halfway through the revision process I decided to shift it all over to present tense (and you can't simply "shift" a book from one tense to another--you must, then, almost completely rewrite it, argh, but it was so worth it), because I liked the rhythm of the language better in present. It felt more immediate, and, because it was more immediate, I didn't have to worry about what Clara knew and didn't know at the time of the telling. (I could explain this more but it would wreck some stuff for Hallowed, sorry). I could simply be with Clara in the moment.

Another thing I'm struck by is how much Clara changed in that process. My editor and I were working, working, working to make Clara stronger as a character. Not that I think it makes Clara a real loser because she runs the wrong way during a football game (this idea stemmed from a particularly painful experience I had in fifth grade during a basketball game that pretty much squashed the idea of me ever playing competitive sports ever again. . .) but I don't see her strength in this scene. I only see her struggling.

All that aside, I still think it's a pretty cool scene. Wendy rocks. Poor, poor Wendy, always gets cut.

And there's Christian dressed as a cheerleader. Can't forget that.