Editing and Deleting 4

It's been a while, so I thought I'd drop in another deleted scene.  This was one of my original opening chapters and takes place even before the deleted prologue I shared in Editing and Deleting and Editing and Deleting 2.  My main character's birth mother has just learned that she's pregnant.  Problem is that she's a prostitute and a baby bulge isn't good for business.  So she looks into an abortion.  However, the main character actually talks her out of it.

The intent here was to show in an early chapter some of the main character's extraterrestrial abilities.  His bio-dad's people are conscious in the womb and quickly develop a telepathic link with the mothers.  Initially it's just instinctual, but it grows.   This part is a very short section of the scene.

Hopefully, once I look through my archived chapters/deletions, I'll find a section where the birth mother (on the run) finally figures out her baby (still in first trimester) is talking to her telepathically.  Needless to say she freaks out a bit.

Legacy Soldier:  Deleted Scene 1

Candice entered the Hilton suite Steve had reserved and threw her bag across the room in frustration.  No results until tomorrow, she thought recalling what the doctor said about her blood test.  She did not blame the doctor.  It was not his fault the health center did not have lab facilities to test her blood. 

She took off her traveling wig, a long-blond wig she used to conceal her identity in hotel lobbies, and sunglasses.  Then, she toured the suite and found a hot tub in the bathroom, just as she had hoped.  Steve would probably not arrive for almost an hour, so she decided to relax in the tub before changing her clothes. 

As the tub filled, Candice lit some scented candles.  As she sat in the warm water, the vanilla sugar scent filled the room.  Relaxing in the caressing water, she closed her eyes and thought about the possible pregnancy.

What’s to think about?  There’s no way I can keep it.  I have to schedule an abortion.  I certainly can’t earn a living with a basketball-sized stomach.  Guys into that are usually into other weird shit.  Looking at her stomach and breasts, she chuckled.  Of course, some would appreciate what it will do for my tits.

She reached for the phone, moved near the tub earlier, but something kept her from dialing.  She knew it was the only practical decision, but she felt reluctant.

Dammit, this is no time to develop a conscious.  She picked up the phone and began to dial.

“No, please.”

“Who said that?” Candice said, fumbling with the phone, almost dropping it into the water.  She stood and looked around for a moment.

“Is anybody there?”  she asked wrapping herself in a towel.  She received no reply.  “Steve, if this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”  Still no reply.  Candice thought for a moment and realized that she would have heard the door open and close if Steve had arrive.

Keep it together girl, she thought.  She decided scheduling an abortion might just add stress that she did not need just before Steve arrived and that there was time to deal with the pregnancy later.  So she dressed and watched television until Steve arrived. 

At 1 pm, she heard a knock at the door, just as she finished re-staging the bathroom.  She assumed it was Steve, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole to confirm his identity.  At first, she was not certain it was Steve.  He usually kept his hair colored medium brown, but this person had more gray.  Then she remembered commenting to him that gray hair made men look more distinguished and decided he took that as a recommendation.

“Why didn’t you just let yourself in,” she asked.  “The room’s in your name.”

Steve stepped through the door carrying a paper bag and lightly kissed her on the cheek as he passed her leaving the scent of freshly applied Old Spice behind.  When Candice closed the door, he turned and handed her the contents of the bag.

“LeCral Winery.” she said.  “You’ve been bringing this around a lot lately.”

“It’s a local winery that I invested in a few months ago.  It’s operated by a man named Krandel LeCral,” Steve explained removing his brown sport coat. 

The smile slowly drained from Candice’s face, “His name sounds familiar.”

“It’s not an easy name to forget.  You may recall that I referred you to him for…services about a month ago.”

“That’s right.  I remember him now.”

“Fondly he hopes.  In fact, he was hoping to get in touch with you again.  I know you prefer to communicate through email accounts that you set up, so I brought his business card.  You can contact him at your convenience.”

Candice looked at the card.  Steve was correct about the email, but she had only setup free email accounts to communicate with regular clients.  The first time she accepted a referral from a client, it felt weird, like a guy loaning his car to a friend.  After a while, she found it was the best way to find reputable clients, but discussing one client with another still felt odd. 

She thought for a moment about her meeting with Krandel LeCral.  He was easy on the eyes.  Physically fit with just a touch of gray in his dark brown hair, but his eyes seemed to hide something.  Of course they did, she thought.  How many people are completely open with a prostitute, especially on their first encounter?  As she thought about her sexual experience with him, she had a strange feeling.  For a moment, she wondered if the feeling was nausea, but she was not sure.

“Are you all right?”

Steve’s voice regained her attention, “Yes, I’m fine.  If you see him, tell him I’ll be in touch soon.”  Being caught daydreaming about someone else is a great way to lose a regular client, she mentally scolded herself.

“Good,” he replied opening the wine bottle.  “Your last message mentioned something special.  I can’t wait.”

Candice went to the cabinet above the bar and retrieved two wine glasses.  As Steve poured the wine, she slowly walked towards the bath using her more seductive gait, undressing as she progressed.  As expected, Steve followed the short trail of clothing.  Candice watched as his eyes moved from the dress on the bathroom floor to the tub where she had already lowered herself.  He set the wine glasses down and began to unbutton his shirt when she playfully pointed with her foot, “Why don’t you light those candles first.”

Editing and Deleting 3

As I've already mentioned, sometimes a writer has to delete a section either because of a need to reduce word count or because it slowed the story/plot.  In some ways, the sections I'm going to post did a little of both.  My novel takes place several centuries in the future.  The main character is human, but one if his parents is from another world - a descendant of human colonists who left Earth centuries earlier, but ended up lost.  They eventually found a habitable world to colonize and called it Ganesha after the Hindu God of Success/Overcoming Obstacles.

I thought some readers might like a little on how their journey went, so I tested some early chapters with log entries from the colony ship.  The first entries were from the commanding officer, but I planned to add more from other colonists.  While my beta readers liked the idea, they said that it was a little distracting, so I removed the log entries.  Here are a couple of examples. 

Chapter 1 Log Entry:

“Prometheus log, September 19, 2104.  As of 0717 hours ship time, we crossed the event horizon and into the FTL conduit, becoming the first Earth colony ship to travel faster than light.  The transition was rougher than expected.  For a few seconds, it felt like every inch of my body was being pulled apart.  I spent the last hour listening to several colonists’ theories of how and why.  That’s what happens with a ship full of geniuses.”

“There were some injuries reported by colonists, mostly bloody noses, headaches, and nausea.  Nothing the medical team couldn’t handle.  Despite that, everyone seems upbeat.  Initial projections show we should pass Pluto’s orbit and officially leave our solar system within two hours.  Captain Matthew Morris, commanding officer.”

Chapter 2 Log Entry:

“Prometheus log, December 24, 2104.  After almost fourteen consecutive weeks in the FTL corridor, we finally emerged, but not where we expected.  Our navigator confirmed that somehow we ended up several thousand light years off course.  One of the physicists on board believes there may be an serious flaw in the design of the navigation system.  I have asked him to keep his theories to himself until we can run some diagnostics.  We are going to run a series of diagnostics on the system before we re-enter FTL. 

“This system has no planets capable of sustaining life, so we can’t even try to replenish any supplies.  We discussed stricter rationing of food and water as a precaution, but tomorrow is Christmas and I still plan to allow holiday parties for those who wish to participate.  Captain Matthew Morris, commanding officer.”

Chapter 3 Log Entry:

“Prometheus log, December 31, 2104.  We re-entered the FTL corridor at 0900 hours, ship time.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that transition.  With all the bickering going on between the crew and colony scientists about what went wrong, it’s a miracle I didn’t have to call security to separate them.  As much as I respect and appreciate the colonists’ input, their expertise is still theoretical.  This ship is a working machine even if it is a prototype.  Hopefully the worst is behind us though.  Best estimates place our new arrival time at three months from now.  Hopefully it will be springtime at our new home.”

“Captain Matthew Morris, Commanding Officer.”

Feel free to express your opinions and

Write On

Editing and Deleting Part 2

Below, I'm including the rest of the deleted prologue.  A key point in the prologue was to highlight the fact that the baby was conscious and able to communicate with his mother telepathically while still in the womb.

Keep in mind that I refer to the main character as "the baby" because he hasn't been named yet.  I had originally started with a name his birth mother intended for him, but deleted that reference because some thought it was too confusing.

How much longer do I have to stay here?  The baby thought lying in his clear, plastic hospital bed, which was more like a box with no lid.  The bright lights, noises, and cold air no longer bothered him, but he deeply missed his mother’s presence.  Her voice and thoughts comforted him.  Now he felt disconnected from everything – completely alone. 

He recalled memories his mother had unknowingly shared over the past months.  After she decided to keep him, she looked at different formulas promising herself, nobody’s ever going to bite down on my tits again.  As their ability to communicate progressed and their bond formed, she began to reconsider nursing him.  He had wondered what it would be like to taste.  Unfortunately, some of the women caring for him did not really feed him.  They simply hooked the bottle to a small machine that forced the formula through a tube running into his nose and down his throat - a very uncomfortable experience.  Fortunately, some of the hospital employees showed him more compassion.  They sat with him, fed him, and one or two even sang to him.  He listened to their songs of sorrow over his recent loss.

“Poor thing,” one said picking him up for an evening feeding.  “All of the others have parents come to see them while they’re here.  Someone to say they’re loved, but not you.  Well, as long as you’re here, I’ll be your friend.”  Her voice was soft and soothing and she had a tone that reminded him of his mother.  Despite the affection she showed, the baby refused to cooperate.  He did not trust this woman.  The only person he trusted was his mother, but he had lost her.

He needed desperately to communicate with someone, but he had not learned how to use his body for anything more than sucking from a bottle and other bodily functions.  The latter were still automatic, unfortunately.  Listening to the words of others without their thoughts was no way to build trust in Trevor’s opinion.  He missed his mother and the comfort of her womb where such foreign and uncomfortable actions were not necessary.

Why can’t I hear others?  Why can’t they hear me?  He thought, referring to the mental communication he shared with his mother, and then he remembered what his mother said before they were separated.  She did not know if their telepathic bond would remain.  The child believed that they would, not only because of their bond, but because he heard one of her attackers, so he knew he could hear thoughts other than his mother’s.  For a moment, he touched another mind.  Now he needed to know how he did it. 

If I can control that, People can’t hurt me like they hurt Mommy.  He remembered things his mother said and thought.  She was always afraid others would come for her.  He did not know which scared her more, fear for her own life, or fear for the baby – fear for him. 

Those fears came from memories of his birth father.  Through his mother’s eyes, he had seen the man point a weapon at her.  He felt her fear and he relived it in her nightmares.  He hated the man for the pain and fear his mother went through.  He promised himself never to consider that man his father.

He did not know how long he had been in the NICU when he received a new visitor.  An older woman approached and picked him up.  The brown-haired woman holding him had grey lines in her hair and wore a medium-length skirt and blouse that told the child she was not a doctor or nurse.  So who was she?  He continued struggling.

“Well, aren’t you just beautiful,” she said to him before turning to another woman wearing medical scrubs and a long white coat.  “When do you expect to discharge the baby, doctor?”

“Hopefully in a couple of days,” the doctor replied.  “He was born slightly premature under traumatic conditions.  At first, he seemed to have difficulties eating.  We have to make certain he can take in enough nourishment on his own before discharging him.”

“Are there any long-term problems I should know about?” the woman asked.  “I have a couple ready to adopt him already lined up, but they will need to know about any health risks.”

“All things considered, he’s in good health,” the doctor said.  “He seems very aware of his surroundings and curious.  Some of the nurses have said he watches them and tries to make eye contact more than other infants.”

Well at least they notice I’m paying attention, he thought.  However, “curious” would not have been the term he used.  He was suspicious of anybody who interacted with him.  Why not?  I’ve got no reason to trust them.

“The couple at the top of the list wanted to know if the baby has a name,” the woman said returning him to his bed.

“No,” the doctor said.  “The mother passed away just after he was born, so she did not have a chance to name him.”

Mommy called me Trevor…Trevor Masters!  

“Could I bring them to see him tomorrow?”

“I suppose.  We’ll have to arrange for the visitation, but I think you can work that our with the hospital administration.  If they come at 4 or 6, the nurses might let them feed him.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled,” the woman looked down smiling and lightly touched his cheek one more time leaving.  “You are just beautiful.  I’m sure they’ll love you.”

Who?  What couple?

The baby had no sense of time since losing his mother.  The closest reference he had were feedings and changings, but it was easy to lose track, so he did not know how much time had passed when the old woman returned with two more people – a man with thinning hair dressed in a business suit and a woman with long, red hair wearing a light blue blouse and navy skirt.  As the woman leaned over, a tear fell from her cheek onto the baby’s.

“I’m sorry,” she said, slightly choked up.  She looked to the man and other woman.  “He’s beautiful.”

“And observant, Mrs. Taylor,” the other woman said.

“Ms. Stevens, I’ve told you to please call me Angie,” the red haired woman said.  “Can I hold him?”

An attending nurse nodded and he watched Angie Taylor reached in and lift him.

 “Hello precious,” Angie said cradling him in her arms.  “Would you like to come home with me?

Who are you? he wondered, staring at her nervously.  You aren’t a nurse or doctor. 

 Swaying gently, she turned to her husband, “Ted, he looks like my grandfather.”

Ted’s eyes moved from his wife to the child she held, tilting his head with a wrinkled brow.

“Take my word for it sweetheart,” she said.  Then she looked down to the baby and whispered, “Don’t worry sweetie, Daddy’s only seen pictures of Grandpa Mark.”

Daddy? the baby thought.  His mother had warned him about someone called that.

“Can I ask what name you were thinking of?” Ms. Stevens asked.

Angie leaned over to her husband and whispered something in his ear.  Ted looked surprised as he pulled back.  “That’s not what we talked about,” he said.  “Are you sure?”

Angie’s lips turned pouty as she raised the baby up to gently press his cheek against hers, “Twust me Daddy,” she said in a baby-voice.  “He’s the spitting image.”

“All right then.”

Angie lowered the baby, cradling him against her ample bosom.  Her eyes fixed on his. “Marcus,” she said.  “Marcus Ulysses Taylor.”

But Mommy called me Trevor, he thought and started screaming.

Angie bounced him lightly making a shushing sound.  Ted approached and said, “Let me try.”

“Are you sure, he seems a little grumpy,” Angie replied.

“Trial by fire,” Ted said smiling.  “It’s not going to get easier.”

She passed him over to Ted, who held the newborn a little clumsy at first, but after a slight hand adjustment looked more comfortable.

“Go ahead, kiddo,” he said.  “Believe it or not, I know how you feel.” I was adopted as an infant, too, so I really do understand what you’ll go through.  You’ll never be anything less than my son.

The cries stopped as this voice echoed in the baby’s mind, the first voice he had sensed since his mother’s death.  Despite her fear of a man called Daddy, the baby found the strange man’s voice soothing, trustworthy.

“It seems like you’re a natural,” a nurse said.

“I guess so,” Ted replied.

Trevor thought about his promise to his mother.  Daddy scared you, but this man isn’t the same.  I won’t forget you.

“Angie, when the baby is discharged from care, we can arrange for you and Ted to care for him as foster parents,” Mrs. Stevens explained.

“How long will that take?”  Angie asked.

“I don’t know for certain.  The authorities are searching for any other family.  If none are found, we can move forward with adoption proceedings.”

“What do you think, buddy?” Ted asked looking at the baby.  “Would you like to come home with us?”

 “Look,” Angie said sweetly.  “He’s smiling.”

“That’s not really a smile,” the nurse said.  “I’ve seen that look before.  He’s straining.”

“Straining to what?” Ted asked.  Sniffing the air, he did not need a response.

Editing and Deleting

One of the toughest parts of editing is deleting.  Why?  Because, as a writer, you feel connected to every part of the story that you've created.  Deleting full sections can be painful, but sometimes necessary.  But rather than completely removing them, I thought I'd share. 

The following section is the first of 3-parts that would have made up my story's prologue.  It takes place about 18 years before the main story.  It introduces the main character before his birth and shows some of his extra terrestrial characteristics.  Enjoy.  There's more to come.

For the first time since awakening in his mother’s womb, fear gripped him as he continued calling for her, but she didn’t reply.  The normally soothing sound of her heartbeat was erratic and terrifying.  Her womb, once warm and comforting, now dark and empty.  Then he heard something, not his mother.  Other sounds, followed by voices – all foreign sounds.  He had heard several muffled voices from within his mother’s womb for months, but since her water broke, everything sounded different.

What is that sound?  he wondered.  Are those other people back?  Is somebody here to help?  Mommy?

Sudden movement then joined the voices, leading to more intense fears.  Ever since establishing mental communication with his mother, she had explained sounds and feelings that disturbed him. 

Sweetheart, he finally heard.  They’re here now.  They’ll take care of you.

Who? he replied.

Paramedics are taking us to the hospital nearby.  The doctors there will take care of you. she explained.

Para..?  He tried to look into his mother’s memories to show who these people were, but his fears overwhelmed him.  What about you? 

She did not reply.  Louder voices and more jostling came while he waited for an answer.  He heard too many people speaking to quickly to understand.  Finally, most of them died down and an unfamiliar male voice dominated.

He tried to reach out and use her senses as he had learned to do when she slept.  He remembered a night when she had asleep with the television on.  He hungered for stimulation, wondering what the outside sound was, but her womb distorted the sound.  He found himself unknowingly connecting with the part of his mother’s that processed real-time sensory input.  In effect, he used his mother’s ears to listen to the television.  Unfortunately, his new skill did not include an ability to use the remote control and all he could listen to was what his mother called “infomercials” and “crap TV.”

Since then he not only heard sounds through her ears, but he also saw some things through her eyes, and learned different smells through her nose.  He decided to use the same technique to listen to the other voices.

“…emergency C-section,” the man said.  “We have to get the baby out now or we’ll lose them both.”

What does that mean?  Mommy, are you there?  Why don’t you answer me?  Did I do something to make you quiet?  The only response he received was her slowing heartbeat.  He wiggled and squirmed, punched and kicked hoping to elicit a response from her. 

“Baby’s heartbeat is becoming erratic, doctor,” said another voice.

Mommy, wake up!  Panic began to overwhelm the baby.  Focusing on the voices became more difficult.  He knew something was wrong, and not just with his mother.  Listening to the doctor and other voices became increasingly difficult, even listening through his mother’s ears. 

What’s…what’s happening?

“…in distress…” he finally heard.

Distress?   Are we…dying?

A sudden rush of cold air swept over him, followed by bright light.  It was different from visions and lights he had seen through his mother’s eyes.  For the first time, he saw light through his eyes.  He began to hear sounds more clearly through his own ears.  The sensations, though an intense change, seemed overrated.  The anticipation and excitement about the impending birth that he had shared with his mother was overshadowed by his concern for her well-being.  He felt something grab and pull him; no, steal him from the embrace of his mother’s womb. 

Mommy, you promised we’d share this!  He kept trying to reach out to her, but heard nothing from her.  In some ways, he felt like it was less than nothing.  Even after the attack on his mother, he felt something – her presence, her existence.  He heard her heartbeat, felt her warmth.  Now, he felt nothing.  He was isolated, alone.  He hated it. 

Anger and fear dominated his mind as the medical team continued to invade and abuse him.  They stuck things in his nose and into his mouth.  Although brief, the experience was not pleasant.  He coughed and screamed for the first time. 

I screamed.  That was my voice.  Startled by this development, his focus on his mother’s condition briefly faded.  He had never thought about what his voice would sound like.  The mental bond he had shared with his mother had been enough.  He wanted to know what else he could do.  Shivering in the cold air, he tried to move but he was quickly subdued.  Someone had wrapped him so tightly that he could not move his arms or legs.  The blanket swaddling him made him feel warmer, but he still struggled and screamed as concerns over his mother resurfaced.

No!  Don’t…!  Mommy!  She did not respond.  That alone did not frighten him as much as the lack of her presence.  More than anything else, he wanted to hear her voice, feel her warmth, and know she was there.  He wanted to hear her words clearly through his own ears for the first time.  His eyes adjusted to room’s light and he saw the figures more clearly.  Most important, he could see his mother.  She had sometimes sat in front of a mirror and talked to him.  He saw the reflection through her eyes.  Now he saw her with his own, and he did not like it.

His mother lay on a bed surrounded by people and machines that beeped, hummed, and flashed.  Wires from the machines led to blood-stained sheets covering most of her body.  A mask and hose covered most of her face.  Only her eyes remained uncovered.  He wanted to look into her eyes, but they remained closed.

“Nurse, take the baby to the NICU,” the doctor ordered, not bothering to look in her direction.

“Yes, doctor,” she replied.

The baby screamed his objection, straining against his swaddled restraint.  I want Mommy!  His struggles continued as a nurse placed him in a portable incubator and wheeled him out of the room.  As he lost sight of his mother, one of the machines tone changed from a series of beeps to a constant tone.

“We’re losing her,” he heard the doctor say.  “Get the cardio-stim unit over here now!”

“Ready, Doctor,” a female voice replied.

The baby did not hear anything else from the ER.

Mommy!  Where are you?  He continued to scream, hoping his displays of fear and frustration would elicit some response, but the people continued as if going through a routine.  A strange woman, the one apparently called “nurse,”  took him to another room.  She closed the door and placed him in some type of shallow, elongated bowl.  He felt fear and exhaustion as he listened to his screams wondering why nobody would respond.

“Six pounds, eleven ounces,” the nurse said just before removing him from the bowl and placing him on a table under strange lights.

His screams grew quieter as he tried to focus on his new environment.  He wanted to speak, but he could not create words.  He reached out with his mind, but all was quiet.  He did not like this type of quiet.  The constant companionship of his mother’s thoughts and dreams ripped away.  Stolen from him not by those she feared, but by a coward who needed two friends to attack a defenseless pregnant woman hoping for an easy mark.  The baby understood the irony that his mother’s precautions contributed to her death.  He did not know why he understood, he just did.