 From
the Cutting Room Floor
Moira and Maeve huddled under
the covers with Jane Eyre cracked open between them.
Moira turned to her favorite section, where Mr. Rochester
first asks Jane to marry him. “Listen to what he says to
Jane here,” she said. “‘I sometimes have
a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when
you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string
somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably
knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding
quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous
Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come
broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion
will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should
take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget
me.’”
“I would never forget you!” Maeve said.
“That’s what Jane says, too!”
Maeve giggled.
“Girls,” said Abby. “Close the book. It’s time for
bed.”
Maeve put her mouth close to Moira’s ear. “We are
joined that way,” she said. “Don’t you feel the string? Never snap it.”
“No more talking,” said Abby. “Go. To. Sleep.”
Moira closed her eyes and thought she felt something
very like a string, very near her rib. She would
not snap it. Not ever.
[End of excerpt]
I could probably fill three books with all of the
deleted text lying about due to this novel. Once I’d
settled on writing The Last Will of Moira Leahy as
women’s fiction, the only section of the book that
didn’t give me trouble was the last; it was always clear
what would happen in that section, and writing it was
a simple, fluid experience.
The middle, not so easy.
And the beginning was a surprising challenge, in part
because I was absolutely convinced that I’d need a
prologue. Though I knew that nine of out ten people
do not read prologues, I thought my prologue would
become the special shiny one that everyone would admire.
Writers’ egos are funny things.
Here are a few of the first paragraphs I drafted before settling
on the winning graph, which I’ll post at the end.
TAKE ONE: Let’s try a clever prologue here
called “Afterward.” First person. Tell them how important
this story is. Go.
Lives are saved every day—great lives, the lives of
children and animals and corrupt politicians and
masses of people lucky enough to be forewarned of
natural disasters. So I’ll give it to you: The story
of a single saved life isn’t remarkable on the surface
of things. But how this one life was saved is unique,
and I don’t say that solely because it’s mine.
TAKE TWO: Try it in 3rd person, Jack Leahy’s
point of view. Maeve and Moira are newborns. Go.
Finally
his babies were here—both of them. Jack Leahy held
out his arms awkwardly for the nurse, then all at once
the first of his daughters was in them, a warm presence
though hardly a weight. A great gladness bloomed in
his chest as he studied her face—the ruddy cheeks,
the lips that seemed to want to pout or purse, the
eyes squinting open at him just a bit. He edged a careful
finger toward her wee cap and nudged it to reveal a
mop of red hair. The girl’s eyes opened wide at his
laugh.
TAKE THREE: Make it moody. Maeve’s point of
view. Indicate a little of what she’s lost. Go.
I
used to love storms. Love them. I would sit
before open doors and windows with Moira and my father
through thunderstorms like this one, rain splattering
at me through the screen, and be in awe of nature,
of all its might and music. But that was Before.
TAKE FOUR: Speak to Abby’s discomfort with
all things twin.
Abby Leahy was not the kind of mother to dress her
twin girls in matching outfits; in fact, she did all
she could to encourage individuality. She strove to
spend time alone with her daughters daily even when
they resisted these efforts, clinging to one another,
speaking in their strange language, and giggling behind
their hands.
TAKE FIVE: Same idea, but make it more subtle.
Moira’s point of view. Go.
Moira thought it was seeing the conjoined boys at
the twins convention that sent her mother over the
edge.
TAKE SIX: In the name of Godiva, forget about
the prologue ideas already! Get to the scene you
know kicks things off—the auction scene. Maeve’s
point of view. Go.
It was the middle of November, positively frigid out,
and I’d left my lap-warming cat and a towering stack
of papers to go to Lansing’s Block. I didn’t really
know why, but that I was desperate to evade responsibility
for an hour, and what else was there to do in a sleepy
upstate New York town on a Sunday evening? Pathetic,
I know, but I also felt I’d be a little less lonely
among the strangers.
TAKE SEVEN: Lucky seven, please work. Less
clinical. Get to the heart of the matter.
I
lost my twin to a harsh November nine years ago. Ever
since, I’ve felt the span of that month like no other,
as if each of the calendar’s perfect little squares
split in two on the page. I wished they’d just disappear.
Bring on winter. I had bags of rock salt, a shovel,
and a strong back. I wasn’t afraid of ice and snow.
November always lingered, though, crackling under the
foot of my memory like dead leaves.
Seven was, indeed, my lucky number.
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