Deleted Scenes

I miss the days of DVDs when you could watch deleted scenes and bloopers from movies. Some disks came with so many deleted scenes, it was almost like watching the whole movie over again. 

Ever wonder why film editors decide to remove certain bits, whether it’s simply about keeping the final production to a certain length or for some other reason? Have you ever watched a deleted scene that you thought made the whole story make more sense and should have been kept in?

The same happens with books.

If you’ve been paying attention, you know I’ve just released another book. What’s different about this one is that I’m self-publishing it, which greatly reduces the amount of time between my final revision (the point after which I can’t make any more changes) and the book’s release date. I had just sent out the manuscript to my pre-launch team members who agreed to read it before its release, post their reviews on launch day, and help me promote the book before and after that day.

The next morning, while stepping into the shower, I thought of a scene in the book that I’d written in the original draft but which I couldn’t remember seeing in my latest revision.

As soon as I could return to my desk, I compared the two. Sure enough, that scene appeared in the first but not the last version. I then recalled what had happened.

If you’re an author, you know that working with an editor can sometimes feel like dumping all the puzzle pieces out of the box onto a table and having your editor help you put it together in a way that improves the picture. My editor, Shari, had suggested, and I agreed, that my prologue needed to go. I pulled a few snippets from it that I deemed important, worked them into the main story, and deleted the rest.

But I’d missed one. This particular scene didn’t make or break the story, but it did make the ending far more logical. Because Shari and I had both read that bit, it was already in our minds. It just wasn’t on the page. Now, although the ending made great sense to both of us, it would be less meaningful for readers.

Isn’t that like life? We base everything we do, say, or decide on our limited knowledge or experience, and frequently on the opinions we’ve already formed. We communicate to others assuming they have the same information we do—which, of course, they almost never do. What makes sense to us may not necessarily be so obvious to the other person and we wonder what’s wrong with them.

I’m glad the final revision hadn’t been released and I was able to put that paragraph back into my book. I hope I can remember this experience going forward. May God use it to make me more patient and considerate. More clear in my explanations and more gracious in my expectations. More understanding when others “don’t get it.”

And when I’m the one who “doesn’t get it,” may I ask better questions instead of writing the other person off like a deleted scene.

Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Our friends Jim and Tracy don’t always communicate with each other in the most mature fashion.

Her friends and family would tell you Tracy is a little on the fastidious side when it comes to keeping a clean and tidy house. Some might even say fanatical, but she and I both know that’s not true. In fact, she recently went an entire month without cleaning her house. Well, except for a quick once-over in the bathrooms. And sweeping the kitchen floor. And wiping down the vacuum cleaner. I mean, who doesn’t do those things?

So Tracy was almost looking forward to spending the Monday of her August long weekend cleaning house. She knows it’s a more satisfying job when she can make such a dramatic difference. And that morning, she had discovered a large sticky spot on the hallway floor outside the bedroom door—probably where she slopped a little honey-sweetened herbal tea on her way to bed the night before.

“Good,” she thought. “That hallway floor is the last thing I clean. It will keep me going, knowing I’ll enjoy the satisfaction of mopping away that nasty sticky spot.”

But Tracy’s morning did not go well. When she tried pushing one of those snakey hair-grabbing gadgets down the bathtub drain, it stuck and no amount of yanking or swearing would free it. Meanwhile, Jim was off having breakfast with a friend. “Typical,” Tracy grumbled. “Never around when I need him.”

But, she remembered that nasty sticky spot on the hallway floor and it kept her going.

Awhile later, she discovered to her dismay that she’d started the water distiller without placing a jug beneath the spout. It took three large towels to mop up the water from the basement floor. Every time she turned around, something frustrated Tracy’s efforts and Jim had still not returned. By 10:00 a.m. her energy was already depleted.

But, she remembered that nasty sticky spot on the hallway floor and it kept her going. 

She pushed through, wiping and vacuuming and dusting and mopping. She looked longingly through the window at the sunny deck and the riveting novel she was half-finished reading. 

“I’d be done by now and relaxing on the deck if Jim would ever help me,” she grumbled. “Instead, I’ve still got three more rooms to clean.” But she kept the grumbling inside her head because she remembered that nasty sticky spot on the hallway floor and it kept her going.

Jim returned and managed to free the bathtub drain. At lunch time, he joined Tracy at the kitchen table for a bowl of soup before heading out to tackle his own list of chores.

“By the way,” he said. “I saw the mop standing there, so I cleaned that nasty sticky spot on the hallway floor. I was tired of my socks sticking to it every time I walked by.”

Tracy didn’t dare say a word. How could she? Jim thought he was helping, even though she would be going over the same spot again later when she mopped the whole hallway, only without the same satisfaction. How could she explain without giving Jim a perfectly reasonable excuse to never help again? He’d never understand the logic. What guy would? Certainly not my husband. I appreciate Tracy’s conundrum.

She kept her mouth shut and finished cleaning her house. 

This is why women need girlfriends. 

Or at least, a blog.