A millennia ago, aka 2015, I had an idea for a story. It was a sordid sort of mystery story, narrated by a charming sociopath, that jumped around in time and was populated by many awful, unlikable characters. It was dark and twisty, so I was excited.
I worked on that story for a long, long time. It went through several iterations over the course of a year, never quite gelling. I finally wound up with a novella-length story that was okay, but not particularly great.
After a few weeks, I returned to it, obsessed, and began working on it again. I started writing a fresh narrative, and then I’d borrow pieces from the novella that worked well and stuffed them in. And I worked the idea up into a 65K word novel that was also okay, but not particularly great. I’d add heft, but no real zing. So I set the story aside and worked on other things.
Then I had an opportunity to submit a story to an anthology. The novel I’d just finished, dark and not particularly great, was ideal for the anthology in terms of subject and tone. There was just the small problem of the anthology’s length limit: 6,000 words.
I figured I had three options: 1) track down the editors and buy them drinks until they feel under my Svengali-like sway and simply accepted my novel as a story in their anthology, possibly publishing it as a companion volume; 2) I could write a whole new story for the anthology, which frankly just seemed like work; or 3) I could cut my dark, not particularly great novel down to the bone and see if removing 90% of the words made it sing.
I chose option 3, because, frankly, I like a challenge.
The 10% Solution
It worked.
I tore that story down to the studs. I sometimes complain about how Kill Your Darlings is bad writing advice—and it often is—but this was a real Kill Your Darling Moment. Darlings were everywhere. I got rid of everything but the basic story, aligned it all into one timeline instead of a timey-wimey ball, shed characters and bits, and removed 90% of the words. And here’s the thing: I liked the short story that emerged. It was tight. It was shaded. It was the essential idea that had sparked my imagination 3 years before. It was like I’d grown some hideous block of mineral in a lab, then took a hammer and chisel and carved a small, gorgeous medallion from it.
The anthology bought the story. And that’s it, that’s the punch line. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme and all, but I’m personally kind of chuffed that I took a failed novel and transformed it into a successful story, and all I had to do was get rid of most of my work.
Will I try this with some of the roughly six thousand failed novels I have on my hard drive? Maybe. Why not? Would I recommend this to other folks with failed novels they just can’t quit? Maybe. Why not? All you’ve to lose is your sanity. But then, you’re a writer, so …