Example: Luz and Ludmilla

This is a disguised version of a novel excerpt that I got from a member of an online critique group. It's the end of chapter one and the beginning of chapter two.

My initial cut took this section from 1003 words to 677, for a 33% cut. Then I took more liberties with the text -- changing the grammar to reflect time differently, using slightly different punctuation, things like that -- and achieved a 603-word version, or a 40% cut.

After you read the original, see if you miss anything in the cut versions; also, see what you think about the pace and flow of the edits. If you have comments or additional suggestions, please post them!

Here's the original:

Finally alone, she paced the room, feeling the anxiety she had been fighting the last hours crawl around her body, making her utterly exhausted. In some ways she was relieved. The only witness of that dreadful night when her husband had died was gone; shot, and not by her hand. But, curse that miserable Officer Jimenez. Why did he not die before the Chief of Police got there, before he had a chance to mention her?

Stay with a friend. She almost laughed out loud. She had no friends. She needed no friends. She wanted no friends. There were plenty of associates, more pawns to her than friends. She could think of several men, Mares amongst them, who would be happy to have her stay with them for “a few days.” But the mere thought of their lustful looks was enough to make her sick. No, these men kept their distance, and she would do nothing that would change that.

She stopped by the window, parting the heavy drapes. Lightning colored the night. Luz. Luz Garcia, she thought suddenly. Luz fawned on her like a dog. She would be delighted to have Ludmilla Bustamante, owner of Plumeria Enterprises, stay in her house. It was perfect except for one thing; it was not Luz's house, but her son Gabriel's, and he would never let Ludmilla so much as set foot in his house. Gabriel hated her, and made no attempt to hide it. He was bitter and resentful. He was also, she remembered happily, supposed to be out of town for a couple of weeks.

Luz had mentioned to her how her son had been asked to be a guest speaker at some conference or other in Monterrey. She was so proud. You would think that Gabriel had just become the new President of Mexico. If Gabriel was not home, Ludmilla could stay with Luz; a real slumber party. The thought made her ill.

Chapter 2

Luz Garcia sat on the red leather sofa glancing nervously at the old grandfather clock. Time seemed to move faster than normal, daring her to speak to her son before the expected and dreaded figure appeared at the door. How would she convince Gabriel to let Ludmilla stay in his house? The problem was that Gabriel liked Ludmilla about as much as he liked a scorpion. He would never consent to having Ludmilla in his house. But Gabriel was supposed to be in Monterey, speaking in an important conference, in front of important business people, giving Luz something to talk about to her friends. This morning, he was supposed to be walking out the door, packed suitcase in hand, Luz bidding him farewell, and assuring him all would be well, and telling him that yes, of course it would be an added burden on her to have him gone for two weeks, but that’s what mothers are for. Instead, she saw her son going out to get the paper, no suitcase in his hand. Oh, he forgot to tell her, he is not going after all. Just like that, no consideration, no explanation, after all, she was only his mother. And now, Ludmilla would arrive any minute, and what was Luz supposed to do? She couldn’t call Ludmilla at home. Ludmilla did not give out her phone number, not even to good friends like Luz, with whom she felt comfortable enough to stay for a few days. Luz couldn’t very well call Ludmilla at her office on a Sunday. No, her only option was to talk some sense into her son.

Ludmilla had given her no explanation. She had simply told her that she needed to stay in Luz’s house for a short time. It made no sense to Luz. Ludmilla’s mansion on the outskirts of Juarez made Gabriel’s big and comfortable house look small and shabby. Truly, her reasons made no difference to Luz. The thought of having Ludmilla staying with her made her giddy, like a child on Christmas day. But first she had to deal with her son, and that, she dreaded. Gabriel Garcia was willful and stubborn, and when angered had a voice that could crumble the sturdiest of souls, though he presented no real threat. She knew he would not strike her or hurt her in any real way.

The clock moved on like the ticking of a bomb. It was twenty minutes before noon. Luz looked around the room and saw Gabriel in the same spot, reading the same book and sipping the same coffee from this morning. It always irritated her that he would drink his coffee cold and stale. Actually, there were a lot of things that irritated her about him, like his inability to reason with anyone who had a different opinion from his, and the way he bulldozed his way through any conversation.

Gabriel owed her. Hadn’t she come to stay when his wife, Isabella, had passed away over a year ago, leaving him and three little girls behind? The constant ache in her back was sign enough of all the work she did for him. She wasn’t a young woman anymore, and she easily could have refused to come to help him. Instead, she sold the house she had lived in for over thirty years, and traded her quiet and peaceful days with little work to do tending after only herself for a house full of noisy little girls and more work than should be required of a woman half her age. She had to look over the entire household, and keep control over the servants and the girls.

Of course, she would not have had it any other way. She would never suffer those little girls to be raised by anyone else. If Isabella was dead, bless her soul, then Luz was the next best choice. She could bring them up herself and teach them proper manners. She had her work cut out for her, though. These girls were too free willed and loud to be proper ladies.

My initial reaction to this text was that instead of the author showing or telling, she was showing and telling. So, for example, we know that Gabriel was loud and hated Ludmilla from Ludmilla's thoughts, and then from Luz's worry about talking to Gabriel about her; so it's not necessary for Luz to say "Gabriel liked Ludmilla about as much as he liked a scorpion." Most of my cuts are along those lines.

Here's the 677-word version:

Finally alone, she paced the room, feeling the anxiety she had been fighting crawl around her body, making her utterly exhausted. In some ways she was relieved. The only witness of that dreadful night was gone; shot, and not by her hand. But, curse that miserable Officer Jimenez. Why did he not die before the Chief of Police got there?[1]

Stay with a friend. [2] She almost laughed out loud. She had no friends. She wanted no friends. There were plenty of associates, more pawns than friends. She could think of several men, Mares amongst them, who would be happy to have her stay with them for “a few days.” But the thought of their lustful looks was enough to make her sick. No, these men kept their distance, and she would do nothing that would change that.

She stopped by the window, parting the heavy drapes. Lightning colored the night. Luz Garcia, she thought suddenly. Luz fawned on her like a dog. She would be delighted to have Ludmilla Bustamante, owner of Plumeria Enterprises, stay in her house. But it was not Luz's house, it was her son Gabriel's, and he would never let Ludmilla so much as set foot in his house. But Luz had mentioned how her son was a guest speaker at some conference or other in Monterrey. You would think that Gabriel had just become the new President of Mexico. If Gabriel was not home, Ludmilla could stay with Luz; a real slumber party. The thought made her ill.

Chapter 2

Luz Garcia sat on the red leather sofa glancing nervously at the old grandfather clock. This morning, Gabriel was supposed to walk out the door, suitcase in hand. Luz should have bid him farewell, assured him all would be well, and told him that yes, of course it would be an added burden on her to have him gone for two weeks, but that’s what mothers are for. Instead, her son went out to get the paper, no suitcase in his hand. Oh, he forgot to tell her, he is not going after all. Just like that, after all, she was only his mother. And now, Ludmilla would arrive any minute, and what was Luz supposed to do? Ludmilla did not give out her phone number, not even to good friends like Luz. She couldn’t very well call Ludmilla at her office on a Sunday. No, her only option was to talk some sense into her son.

Ludmilla had simply told her that she needed to stay in Luz’s house for a short time. It made no sense. Ludmilla’s mansion on the outskirts of Juarez made Gabriel’s big and comfortable house look small and shabby. Truly, her reasons made no difference to Luz. The thought of having Ludmilla staying with her made her giddy, like a child on Christmas day. But first she had to deal with her son. When Gabriel Garcia was angered, he had a voice that could crumble the sturdiest of souls, though she knew he would not strike her or hurt her in any real way.

The clock moved on like the ticking of a bomb. It was twenty minutes before noon.

Gabriel owed her. Hadn’t she come to stay when his wife, Isabella, had passed away over a year ago, leaving him and three little girls behind? She wasn’t a young woman anymore, and she easily could have refused to come to help him. Instead, she sold the house she had lived in for over thirty years, and traded her quiet and peaceful days with little work to do tending after only herself for a house full of noisy little girls and servants and more work than should be required of a woman half her age.

Of course, she would not have had it any other way. If Isabella was dead, bless her soul, then Luz would bring them up and teach them proper manners. She had her work cut out for her, though. These girls were too free willed and loud to be proper ladies.

[1] It had already been established that Jimenez had told the Chief of Police that Ludmilla had paid him off.
[2] Just previously, another character had suggested she stay with friends.

Finally, the 603-word version:

Finally alone, she paced the room. The anxiety she had fought crawled around her exhausted body. She was relieved that the only witness of that dreadful night was gone – shot, and not by her hand – but she cursed Officer Jimenez. Why didn’t he die before the Chief of Police got there? [1]

Stay with a friend.[2] She almost laughed out loud. She had no friends. She wanted none. She knew men, including Mares, who would happily have her stay with them for “a few days.” But the thought of their lustful looks made her sick. No, these men kept their distance, and she would do nothing to change that.

She stopped by the window, parting the heavy drapes. Lightning colored the night. Luz Garcia, she thought suddenly. Luz would be delighted to have Ludmilla Bustamante, owner of Plumeria Enterprises, stay in her house. But it was not Luz's house, she remembered, it was her son Gabriel's, and he would never let Ludmilla set foot in it.

But Luz had mentioned how her son was a guest speaker at a conference in Monterrey. You would think that Gabriel had just become the new President of Mexico. If Gabriel was not home, Ludmilla could stay with Luz; a real slumber party. The thought made her ill.

Chapter 2

Luz Garcia sat on the red leather sofa glancing nervously at the old grandfather clock. This morning, Gabriel should have walked out the door, suitcase in hand. Luz should have bid him farewell, assured him all would be well, and told him that yes, of course it would be an added burden on her to have him gone for two weeks, but that’s what mothers are for. Instead, her son went out to get the paper, no suitcase in his hand. Oh, he had forgotten to tell her, he is not going after all. Just like that. After all, she was only his mother. And now, Ludmilla would arrive any minute, and what was Luz supposed to do? Ludmilla did not give out her phone number, not even to good friends like Luz. She couldn’t very well call Ludmilla at her office on a Sunday. No, her only option was to talk sense into her son.

The visit made no sense anyway. Ludmilla’s mansion on the outskirts of Juarez made Gabriel’s big and comfortable house look small and shabby. She had given no reasons, although they would have made no difference to Luz anyway. She was giddy at the thought of Ludmilla staying with her, like a child on Christmas day. But first she had to deal with her son. When Gabriel Garcia was angered, he had a voice that could crumble the sturdiest of souls – though she knew he would not hurt her.

The clock moved on like the ticking of a bomb. It was twenty minutes before noon.

Gabriel owed her. Hadn’t she come to stay when his wife, Isabella, had passed away a year ago, leaving him and three little girls behind? She wasn’t young anymore, and she easily could have refused to come help him. Instead, she sold the her home of thirty years and traded her easy, solitary days for a house full of noisy little girls and servants and more work than should be required of a woman half her age.

Of course, she would not have had it any other way. If Isabella was dead, bless her soul, then Luz would bring the children up and teach them proper manners. She had her work cut out for her, though. These girls were too free willed and loud to be proper ladies.

[1] It had already been established that Jimenez had told the Chief of Police that Ludmilla had paid him off.

[2] Just previously, another character had suggested she stay with friends.

Tell me what you think!

Regards,
Jake

Example: Old Oak

This excerpt is from "Old Oak", an unpublished story that was a finalist (though not in the top 25 and therefore not on the Web site) of the Glimmer Train Press's Fiction Open. Since I had already edited it pretty tightly, it should be tough to cut more.

As a rule of thumb, cut deeply, more than you feel comfortable with; then, if you can, set the manuscript aside for a week. Come back and see if you miss any of the words you had taken out. If you did, add them back in (make sure you saved your previous version!). Because you cut deeply, even if you add back a third of what you took out, you'll still have a pretty steep reduction in word count.

I'm not going to fully take my own advice here, because (a) I had already successfully cut 20% before submitting to Glimmer Train, and (b) I want my first blog post to go up. (Deadlines are deadlines, even if self-imposed.) Let's see if I can get 10% out of this section of "Old Oak". The original is 811 words, so I'm shooting for a reduction of 81 words, or 730 total.

Here's the original text:

For the next stage he needed help. His sons had worked with him when they were young men; John had left the business to become an attorney, but Alex had continued in the cabinetmaker's craft for a decade before becoming a general contractor. Alex was a better chip carver than his father, and his original patterns often appeared in woodworking magazines. His best work, a complete set of kitchen cabinets he had made and decorated for one of the local Brahmins, had appeared in Better Homes and Gardens.

"I don't get it, Dad," he said. "This whole thing is a little creepy."

"No, it's not. It's my coffin, so I get to decide what's creepy. I want it to be beautiful."

"Why?" Alex rubbed his eyes. "Do you think the ants care how good your coffin looks?"

"There won't be ants six feet under."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

The two men looked at each other, the father placidly grinning, the son pursing his lips.

Alex finally dropped his eyes. "All right, Dad. If that's what you want."

Terrence didn't want Alex to tell anyone what the design was for, but there was no way to keep it quiet. How could his wife miss an elongated hexagon stretching over a man-sized sheet of butcher paper? Once she knew, there was no keeping it from anyone. Shelley's phone call came just two days after Alex left the shop. The call wore him out, but at least he knew that Alex had already started working.

John stopped by the church the next afternoon, rapping five times on the heavy oak door.

"Dad?"

"Come here. Look."

Terrence sat in the front pew near his workbench. His heart fluttered a little, but he willfully pretended it was elation. "Look," he said again. "The carcase is done. Ain't she beautiful?" He followed the swirling lines of deep honey brown as they flowed down the unfinished coffin. "All built, but no polyurethane on her yet. It's almost a shame to put it on."

"Right," John said. "You know it's no shame, dad. You always love the raw wood, and then you love it even more when you've shined her up."

Terrence grinned. "Well, I'm allowed." He stood up and pointed to the joint that would be next to his left elbow. "You see how the curve of the grain meets the edge here? And look here," he said, pointing at the narrow piece that would be above the top of his head, "wormholes, right in the middle of some nice tight grain. There's so much going on in that board, I could look at it all day."

"Is that why you're doing this? To look at the wood?"

He continued to gaze at the wormholes. "Sure," he said at last. "That's one reason." He turned and sat again on the pew.

"So why not build something else? I bet these benches would make a damn good hutch."

"Right." A silence settled between them like a layer of new-fallen snow. Finally Terrence took his eyes off the coffin, looked at his son. John had moved to the foot of the coffin, inspecting it — or at least acting like he was. "You won't find any flaws."

John laughed, and Terrence thought it was genuine. "When you don't figure that wormholes are flaws, I guess you're right," he said.

"Those are the best part."

"Right," John said. He ran his fingers along the rabbet that would hold the piano hinge.

Terrence smiled. He knew that John wouldn't find a single splinter — and he knew that John knew it, too.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

Finally. "Making a coffin."

"Dad," John said, "what are you doing?"

"Asked and answered."

The edges of John's mouth curled. Terrence loved it when he could make John smile, even a little bit. "You're still watching Law and Order, I guess."

"Go ahead, ask me something else."

"Why a coffin?"

"Why not?"

"Because you've got better things to do."

"Name two."

John wrinkled his nose in just that way — his mother's habit, when she didn't want to tell Terrence how annoyed she was with him.

"John, you wouldn't want me to stop combing my hair just because I'm gonna die sometime, would you?"

"You could teach the boys how to work wood."

"And I'm going to do that," Terrence said, "just as soon as I'm done with this project."

"Why wait?"

"Why not?"

"If you think this much— " John began. Then he scratched his head and rubbed his nose, as if chasing the words around his face. "If you think this much about dying, I'd think you'd want to get started sooner rather than later."

Terrence smiled, a real smile, large as the ocean. "That's why I've gotta do it now, John. Nobody else will worry about it as much as me."

I didn't quite make my goal. Here's what I came up with in half an hour:

For the next stage he needed help. His sons had worked with him as young men; John left the business to become an attorney, but Alex had continued as a cabinetmaker for a decade before becoming a general contractor. Alex was a better chip carver than his father, and his original patterns often appeared in woodworking magazines. His best work, a set of kitchen cabinets he had made and decorated for one of the local Brahmins, had appeared in Better Homes and Gardens.

"I don't get it, Dad," he said. "This whole thing is a little creepy."

"No, it's not. It's my coffin, so I decide what's creepy. I want it beautiful."

"Why?" Alex rubbed his eyes. "Do you think the ants care how good your coffin looks?"

"There won't be ants six feet under."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

The two men looked at each other, the father placidly grinning, the son pursing his lips.

Alex dropped his eyes. "All right, Dad. If that's what you want."

Terrence didn't want anyone to know, but how could Alex's wife miss a man-sized hexagon traced on a sheet of butcher paper? She must have told Shelley, because she called Terrence just two days after Alex left the shop. The call wore him out, but at least he knew that Alex had started working.

John stopped by the church the next afternoon, rapping five times on the heavy oak door.

"Dad?"

"Come here. Look."

Terrence sat in the front pew near his workbench. He pretended that the fluttering of his heart was elation. "Look," he said again. "The carcase is done. Ain't she beautiful?" He followed the lines of deep honey as they flowed down the coffin. "All built, but no polyurethane yet. Almost a shame to put it on her."

"Right," John said. "You know it's no shame, dad. You always love the raw wood, and then you love it more when you've shined her up."

Terrence grinned. "Well, I'm allowed." He stood up and pointed to the joint that would be next to his left elbow. "See how the curve of the grain meets the edge here? And here," he said, pointing at the narrow piece that would be above the top of his head, "wormholes, right smack in some nice tight grain. There's so much going on, I could look at that board all day."

"Is that why you're doing this? To look at the wood?"

He continued to gaze at the wormholes. "Sure," he said at last. "That's one reason." He turned and sat again on the pew.

"So why not build something else? I bet these benches would make a damn good hutch."

"Right." A silence settled between them like a layer of new-fallen snow. Finally Terrence took his eyes off the coffin, looked at his son. John was inspecting the foot of the coffin — or at least pretending to. "You won't find any flaws."

John laughed, and Terrence thought it was genuine. "When you don't figure that wormholes are flaws, I guess you're right," he said.

"Those are the best part."

"Right," John said. He ran his fingers along the rabbet that would hold the piano hinge.

Terrence smiled. He knew that John wouldn't find a single splinter — and he knew that John knew it, too.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

Finally. "Making a coffin."

"Dad," John said, "what are you doing?"

"Asked and answered."

The edges of John's mouth curled. Terrence loved it when he could make John smile, even a little bit. "You're still watching Law and Order, I guess."

"Go ahead, ask me something else."

"Why a coffin?"

"Why not?"

"Because you've got better things to do."

"Name two."

John wrinkled his nose in just that way — his mother's habit, when she didn't want to tell Terrence how annoyed she was with him.

"John, I wouldn't stop combing my hair just because I'm gonna die sometime, would I?"

"You could teach the boys how to work wood."

"And I'll do that," Terrence said, "just as soon as I'm done with this project."

"Why wait?"

"Why not?"

"If you think this much— " John began. Then he scratched his head and rubbed his nose, as if chasing the words around his face. "If you think this much about dying, I'd think you'd want to get started sooner rather than later."

Terrence smiled, a real smile, large as the ocean. "That's why I've gotta do it now, John. Nobody else will worry about it as much as me."

That's a total of almost 55 words, or almost 7%. Although I didn't make my goal, I did go a little bit beyond my comfort zone, which is important. Cutting isn't everything, but it's too easy to cut too little. You can always put words back in.

Where did the words come from? Why did I cut so few of them?

• Unnecessary description. This is a tough one for me personally. What's "unnecessary"? In the original, I wrote, "His best work, a complete set of kitchen cabinets". But does the reader really need to know that it was "a complete set"? "Complete" was cut from the final version. You can do a "death by a thousand cuts" walkthrough of a manuscript just looking for this type of one- or two-word cut to be made, over and over again.



• Slight phrase alterations. I have to read a document in "cutting mode" to handle this. I can't just be editing, although sometimes while editing I notice where little alterations can fit; I have to read with my mind set to bounce around a bunch of alternative phrases.
  
  For example, the original read, "His sons had worked with him when they were young men". The cut version says, "His sons had worked with him as young men". The trigger here was seeing "were": forms of "to be" very often can be reworked.



• Reworking paragraphs. I do this a lot in my own work, but I don't do it often for other people. Too often, you can change what the text sounds like. When I reworked a paragraph in this example, I wasn't very comfortable with the results, but I think I'll sit on it for a while before I decide what to do. Here's the original:
  

  Terrence didn't want Alex to tell anyone what the design was for, but there was no way to keep it quiet. How could his wife miss an elongated hexagon stretching over a man-sized sheet of butcher paper? Once she knew, there was no keeping it from anyone. Shelley's phone call came just two days after Alex left the shop. The call wore him out, but at least he knew that Alex had already started working.

  ...and here's the final:

  Terrence didn't want anyone to know, but how could Alex's wife miss a man-sized hexagon traced on a sheet of butcher paper? She must have told Shelley, because she called Terrence just two days after Alex left the shop. The call wore him out, but at least he knew that Alex had started working.

  
  Word count: 54 vs. 75, or 28%.



• Dialogue. Most dialogue isn't concise, so I couldn't easily cut superfluous phrases without sounding unnatural. Since most of this section was dialogue, I couldn't cut everything as far to the bone as I might like. When Alex says "All right, Dad. If that's what you want", either the first sentence or the second could be cut without changing the meaning; but that didn't sound like a real person talking. (To see whether something sounds natural, try reading the passage -- not just one sentence in isolation -- out loud.)
  
  On the other hand, I had already decided that Terrence would be terse, so I could cut him in several spots: "And I'm going to do that" became "And I'll do that" (6 became 4), and "wormholes, right in the middle of some nice tight grain" became "wormholes, right smack in some nice tight grain" (10 became 8). That's a lot of effort for four words, but when you consider the original was 16 words, that's a 25% cut.
  
  There are other little spots where I edited Terrence down, too. "No, it's not. It's my coffin, so I get to decide what's creepy. I want it to be beautiful." became "No, it's not. It's my coffin, so I decide what's creepy. I want it beautiful." -- 19 becomes 15, for a 21% cut. After making that cut, I decided I liked it better anyway. It's less "perfect", and thus more real: I used cutting to help me find a character's voice.
  
  Finding a balance for your character is important. If all I were worried about was cutting, I'd cut either "right" or "smack": "wormholes, right in some nice tight grain" or "wormholes, smack in some nice tight grain". It didn't sound right, though, so I left it.

I think that's where I'm going to end this entry. Please comment, add your suggestions, and, if you're interested in having your work cut, send no more than 1000 words to cutting.blog@gmail.com.

The Purpose of "Cutting"

On this blog, "Cutting" means "using fewer words to say the same thing." It's a tough skill, but it's critical: for marketing, fiction, journalism, and a lot of other fields.

You can decide whether I'm doing a good job, and you can add your own comments, as I hack out gobbets of prose: my own efforts, published snippets, and stuff from volunteers. I'll avoid changing the tone or style of the text I edit, because I'm trying to condense it, not change it.

Of course, not everything is worth the amount of effort that I put into the examples. If I had to polish everything I write, it would take me longer to get to the good stuff.

Now I just have to find something to cut! Let's see...