This past weekend while sorting through some cabinets in my office, I came across a folder of papers about an inch or so thick. I didn’t immediately recall what was in the folder so I flipped it open to the first section and found a four page printout of the Lester Dent short story formula from the Pulp Era. Dent is probably best known for his Doc Savage novels of which he wrote all but twenty of the 181 novels. I’ve never found a count of the short stories he wrote but I have no doubt they run into the hundreds.
I put the Lester Dent formula aside, (you can find it online here), and found the mindmap for a short story I wrote several years ago. As I scanned the map, I realized it bore hardly any relation to the actual story.
After that, about two thirds of the remaining pages were notes, thoughts, and ideas for the story that became The Head of the Serpent. I thumbed through the notes and again, was aware how the story as I first conceived it changed dramatically to the published item. The published story is tighter, faster paced, and focuses more on Sarah and David, the two main characters. As I pulled the pages out of the folder, it crossed my mind I should keep the notes, and in parallel, came the question. Why?
When I become incapable of writing, or leave this world, who is going to care? I’m not Hemingway, Conan-Doyle, or King. At this point I can’t yet compare myself to the writers I admire and devour at every opportunity – Kristin Kathryn Rusch, Nora Roberts, Dean Wesley Smith. I’d rather be remembered, if at all for the finished stories, not the random scribblings that came before.
So the notes went into the shredder and I’ll let someone else worry about posterity.
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