In a recent blog post, Tiffany Yates Martin examines how writers can find the courage to cut their work. “It’s terrifying to make big, substantive cuts in your story—even if you’re not happy with how it’s holding together,” she says. “Taking out an extraneous character or storyline, excising scenes that are stalling momentum, killing a darling—even if you know the cuts have to be made, it’s scary not to know exactly how it’s going to turn out, or what effect it might have on the rest of the manuscript. Stories are a tapestry—pull one thread and maybe the whole thing will unravel.”
The worst thing you can do is wimp out, Yates Martin says. Small edits here and there may only make the manuscript messier, especially if big edits are needed. “When there are parts of your story that are hampering the whole and need to be cut (and determining what those are and whether they actually need to go or are salvageable is its own art), you just have to make that cut,” she writes.
The great thing is that no cut is ever permanent or unfixable. You should always save your original version in case you want to go back. Save your cuts in a second file as well, in case you want to raid some text. “I’ve done this for years, often winding up with hundreds of pages of cut material with every story, and I’ve almost never gone back and retrieved any of it,” Yates Martin says. “So be bold.”
You may also fall back on professional advice, but your skills as a writer should encompass editing and revision, as well as drafting. You may still need an outside eye to help you determine if you’re hitting the right marks, but you can find that with critique partners, trusted friends, and beta readers, as well as with editors.
“You may not be able to tell right away whether the cuts you’re making are actually improving the story,” Yates Martin says. “Yet even if it’s still not right, it’s okay. Most stories can be fixed, even if it may take more time or more drafts than you hoped.” And if you can’t fix the story at all, that’s ok too. Put it away and start the next thing. “Our words aren’t written in stone, and our stories aren’t sacred documents that can’t be changed,” Yates Martin writes. “They’re living, evolving, organic entities—and you’re a creator; you can always, always create.”
