I’m a writer (well, duh, you say) which means that every single word I put on a page is my baby. Every. Single. I birthed those words and sometimes, a lot of times, it hurt! But not every word makes the final cut. A lot of them–a LOT–have to go. Either because they slowed the pace down, the scene changed or it was out of character. But I can’t simply hit the delete button on those babies. Good or bad, they’re my words. So I keep them, and for every book I write I create a folder called “Cutting Room Floor.Insert name of book”. That folder stays with me because sometimes, not often, but sometimes I’ll use those words again.
They’re good words, sometimes really well written paragraphs that make me want to cry when I can’t use them. So I decided to make a use for them. Each week (I’m thinking of Wednesdays, but we’ll see how it works), I’m going to post something that made it to the cutting room floor. And I’m going to encourage other writers to post their cutting room floor snippets (because most of us simply can’t let loose those babies).
Today’s cutting room floor comes from my newest release, Her Dark Knight (where I have a whopping 85 pages of cut scenes):
“Are you certain of this?”
She hesitated before nodding and he took satisfaction in the small hesitation. It gave him hope. It seemed lately it was the only thing he could keep hold of—his hope.
“You will call if you need me?”
“Your number is programmed into my phone.” Her whiskey-colored eyes were huge and moist with perpetual unshed tears.
“I hate to leave you here alone,” he admitted, but stopped before he begged her to return with him.
“I’ll be fine.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. A sisterly, affectionate kiss that seared his skin where her lips had touched and left him wanting more.
“I’ll be fine.” She stepped back.
His cue to leave. He moved toward the door, hesitated, then walked through, closing it firmly behind him. For long moments he stood in the hall, listening to her move about. He even placed his hand on the door, but felt only cold wood.
We’re very much strangers, she had said and Christien had to fight to keep his breathing even, to keep her from seeing how much her words had hurt. Yes, to her they were strangers.
But to him, she was everything.