I Cut 100 Pages From a Book That Isn’t Even Half Done

I would like to discuss the deeply unserious lifestyle choice known as writing a book.

I’m currently working on a new novel that is estimated to land somewhere around 26 chapters.

That sounds reasonable.

Manageable, even.

A nice, normal-sized book written by a person who clearly has boundaries.

I am currently on Chapter 13.

For those keeping track at home, that means I am not even technically halfway through the planned 26 chapters.

And today, I went through what I’ve written so far and cut more than 100 pages.

One hundred.

Pages.

From half a book.

Please allow that sentence to marinate.

Most people hear “I cut 100 pages” and assume this must mean the manuscript is getting close to finished.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

I HAVE 13 MORE CHAPTERS TO WRITE.

This wasn’t editing.

This was deforestation.

Entire conversations disappeared. Scenes that once had hopes and dreams were escorted from the premises. Characters lost paragraphs of dialogue because apparently they had been speaking without adult supervision.

There were whole sections where I found myself asking:

“Do we need this?”

No.

“Does this move the story forward?”

Also no.

“Is it funny?”

Unfortunately, yes.

And that is how writers end up staring at a perfectly good joke for fifteen minutes before whispering, “I’m sorry,” and hitting Delete.

The worst part?

The book is better now.

Which is incredibly rude.

Because nothing destroys your confidence quite like removing 100 pages of your own writing and immediately realizing the manuscript has improved dramatically.

Apparently Past Me was being paid by the word.

Current Me is now serving as management and has announced layoffs.

And these were not easy layoffs.

There was no severance package.

No COBRA.

No tasteful LinkedIn post announcing that Chapter 7’s fourteen-page side quest was “exploring new opportunities.”

It was just:

Delete.

Delete.

Jesus Christ, why is this scene still going?

Delete.

At one point, I swear I could hear Microsoft Word quietly asking whether everything was okay at home.

No, Word.

Everything is not okay.

There are still thirteen chapters left.

That’s the part that keeps haunting me.

If I managed to generate 100 unnecessary pages in the first half, what fresh literary bullshit awaits me in Chapters 14 through 26?

Will there be another hundred?

Two hundred?

Will I eventually finish a 700-page manuscript and edit it down to a tasteful 312?

Will my deleted scenes eventually contain enough material to publish an entirely separate novel called August Quinn Refuses to Get to the Fucking Point?

These are questions for Future Me.

Present Me is just sitting here looking at Chapter 13 like someone who cleaned half the house and suddenly realized there is an entire second floor.

And naturally, because I am an author, my reaction to cutting more than 100 pages was not:

“Wow, I should probably write less.”

It was:

“Great. Now I have room to add some stuff.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why writers cannot be trusted with unlimited storage.