Murder your darlings. The advice is frequently trotted out in writing circles. (It is just as often misattributed to Oscar Wilde or F. Scott Fitz or some other luminary. In actuality, the mantra comes from Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, and he probably stole it from his grandmother). No matter who it was that first thunk it, the advice is good. It’s quite easy to become particularly attached to a bit of prose that isn’t actually pulling its weight in the broader narrative. It could be fabulously written, but throwing off the pace. It could be distracting. It could be a bit of over-intrusive narration. It could be terrible, but you love it anyway. Be ruthless. Make sure all your prose serves the best interest of the story (and your readers).
As an example, I give you the lost history of Henry, Kansas. I wrote this. I like it despite its many faults. But it is clearly chub, nonetheless, and I slashed it from my book. It came early in the first chapter of 100 Cupboards (while Frank and Dorothy Willis were waiting for the bus), and it lengthened an already slow build to action. For a couple of years, it has been dwelling in some dark corner of my hard drive. But now, it sees the light—blinking, dusty, useless. . .
Henry, Kansas was born when an ox died and a donkey grew too weary to pull a wagon by itself. The owner of both of these animals was, of course, disappointed in them. But he was a man who took things in stride. He buried the ox. Or so some of the more obscure histories maintain. Others insist that he ate it. Perhaps he ate most of it and buried the rest. Or maybe this particular ox had certain ailments that the man believed to be catching.
Regardless, on the spot marked with an ox, he built two things. The first was a house, and the second was a small hotel. He constructed both of these near a creek, using the trees that grew alongside it. He had planned on doing something like this wherever the ox finally gave out, and so he was well equipped. He acquired, by homestead, a large amount of acreage in the area and dug one hole near the creek, into which he inserted and then removed some gold that he had brought along for this purpose. He then traveled to every surrounding city and town the donkey could reach, pretended to drink too much in crowded saloons, and made accidental announcements of his find.
All he had to do then was sell off all of his acreage in small sections, and watch as the small world around his hotel was turned into a pockmarked warren of prospectors. He laughed and bought himself expensive mail-order vests, which had been his goal all the time. At least he laughed until he was shot by a Chinaman not far from where he had dug his first hole. It was said that the dispute had been regarding an unsuccessful laundry incident involving his favorite purple vest, but in old western style, the poor Chinaman was hanged before anyone had time to find out.
That man had called the town Henry, after himself, from the time of his ox’s death, and no one had ever bothered to consider changing it. The name represented an entrepreneurial spirit and a certain kind of success.
There you have it. A murdered darling.
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