Scott D. Parker
When it comes to deleting text from you work in progress, do you up and delete it or do you save it?
I’m revising the existing chapters of my current work in progress before I hit that mark where I’ll be crafting brand-new words. As of yesterday’s writing session, I realized that a chapter/scene I had written really isn’t necessary. Actually, I’ve already excised two scenes because I think they’ll slow the pace. I can get the same information across with a tweak to an earlier chapter.
So what to do with the now deleted text?
I am using Scrivener for this particular book. If you’ve never used this program, it’s a little like Windows Explorer (or Finder for Mac folks) with each scene/chapter its own unique folder. There is also a ‘research’ folder at the bottom of the file structure. Typically this is used to house whatever research a writer needs to craft the book.
I have a folder I call “Excised text” and I’m pretty sure you can guess what that is. It is the folder into which I place all the content I will not be using.
Sure, I could—and do—simply delete it from the main sections of the book, but I also want to keep a record of it. In my comp book, I note that I’ve removed certain scenes. On my notecards, I’ll note that I’ve remove the scene from the main flow—but I keep the card in its original spot. I guess that’s the historian part of me. I want the record to show that on such and such a day, I removed a scene. It’ll also act as a road map if, when I’m finished, I go back and reconsider if the excised text/chapter really does belong. I’ve got all that text at the ready.
It’s a pattern I’ve always adhered to, going back as far as my grad school days.
How about you? Do you merely delete text/scenes you don’t need, or do you save it…just in case? I’m a process guy and I’d love to know how other writers treat text they don’t want to use.
Saturday, November 7, 2020
Thursday, November 5, 2020
With every criminal affiliate out looking for them, making good on their getaway doesn’t seem promising. Even their so-called friends are on the take, willing to pull a double-cross if that’s what’s going to turn them a quick buck. But Big Bobby Joe hasn’t counted on his daughter’s resolve to distance herself from him. No matter what he throws at her, no matter what he does, she’s going to get away—or die trying.
Tuesday, November 3, 2020
I just started watching The Queen's Gambit on Netflix -- I'm one episode in -- but so far it's excellent. I read Walter Tevis' novel several years ago and loved it, and I've been glad to hear such positive things about the show from everyone posting about it on social media. It really does tell a fascinating story and have a compelling central character. Though I would hardly call myself a superlative player, I've liked and played chess since I was a child and have read up quite a bit on the game's history, and that Tevis, who called himself "a class C" player, had studied and acquired lots of knowledge about the game is obvious to any reader. Among his other novels are The Hustler and The Color of Money, so if there is anyone who knows how to tell a tale based around the drama and tension of games, it's Tevis. He does it in a way that's riveting in The Queen's Gambit, a novel that's part game/sports story, part psychological thriller, part coming of age novel. My bet is that anyone who hasn't read the book and loves the series will like the book a lot.
Among chess novels, Tevis' book ranks among the best ever written, and I'd put it among my top three fictional chess stories. The other two aren't surprising picks by any means, but they're worth noting, nonetheless.
First, The Defense (or The Luzhin Defense, as it's also called), by Vladimir Nabokov.
Nabokov's third novel, first published in Berlin in 1930, is about the life of the title character, Luzhin, and explores the link between genius and madness. Though he's not an orphan like Beth Harmon, Luzhin has a few similarities with her. As a child, he's a solitary sort who finds it difficult to connect with people. Even his parents don't understand him. He winds up turning to chess as a -- yes -- defense against ordinary life with its attendant anxieties. And at first he succeeds, rising in the chess world swiftly, but at some point, his obsession with the game becomes all-consuming and works against even how he performs at the board. No doubt, and unsurprisingly, this theme of obsession is a common one in chess stories, and Nabokov himself describes The Defense as "the story of a chess player who was crushed by his genius". In part, he based the character on a German chess master he knew, a man who, shall we say, came to an unfortunate end. As with Tevis, it's obvious Nabokov knows the game well, and anyway, it's a Nabokov novel, so you know it can't not be good.
My other favorite chess story is the classic Stefan Zweig novella, The Royal Game (also known as Chess Story). It was written in 1941, a year before Zweig, an Austrian in exile in Brazil, distraught about the state of the world, committed suicide. He sent the story off to his publisher a few days before he killed himself, and the novella was published in 1943.