The Boy in the Scene

The hardest part of finishing a novel is not the prose. At least, not for me. The hardest part is staying open to where the story wants to go and slowly discovering what the novel is really about. You may start with one set of intentions, but somewhere along the way, the book begins to trade them out for better ones. Quietly. Almost while your back is turned.

One of the most valuable things I learned from an old tennis partner of mine, who was also a writer, was patience with the soul of a character. He was never afraid to let a man think for forty pages, or to let a woman cross a room without explaining everything right away. He trusted that the reader would stay in the chair.

I think about that often when I am cutting a scene. These days, so much writing advice says: cut, cut, cut. And there is truth in that. But I also believe there is a place for staying. A place for the long pause. A place for the third look at a face. A place for the quiet moment that may seem unnecessary at first, but somehow carries more than we realize.

There is a shaved-headed boy who keeps showing up in my scenes, and to be honest, I am still not entirely sure why he is there. I do not fully know what he wants to say, or where he may be leading the story. But I hope you notice him when you read.

And when you do, I would truly love to hear what you think. Did he stand out to you? Did he seem to mean something? Did he feel symbolic, unsettling, unexpected, or simply human in a way that stayed with you?

I ask because some of the most important sentences in the novels I love are, by any reasonable standard, sentences that do not need to be there. And yet, without them, something essential would be missing. I am not an especially patient person by nature. But when I write, I try to remember that the reader has come a long way to be in the room, and the room should be worth the trip.

So, when you read, let me know what you think about the boy in the scene. I would love to hear your thoughts.