Interstellar Caveman deleted scene: The tabletop gaming battle
Why one of my favourites scenes simply had to go
As with movies, scenes from novels are sometimes deleted too. I’ve done this numerous times with my own stories already.
Scenes are deleted during the editing process. Whereas a movie scene is deleted after it’s filmed (or maybe exorcised from a script prior to filming), a scene from a novel is deleted once the whole book exists in draft form. In both cases, the scene is deemed expendable once it’s seen in a wider context. It can hurt to chop it out — believe me, it hurts! — but in such cases you have to grit your teeth and murder your darlings.
There are many reasons this can happen, but I’m going to illustrate a couple of them using an example from my first novel, Interstellar Caveman (available at fine online retailers!).
Hang on, what in a novel constitutes a ‘scene’?
For me, a scene in a novel is a logical ‘chunk’ of the story. It may be a whole chapter, or it may be part of a chapter separated from others by a blank space or ellipses ( * * * ). It’s like a mini-story, in that it has a beginning, middle and end, and follows a character trying to achieve something or undergoing a change. And it usually follows the action in real-time and takes place in a single location.
OK, carry on
Here’s the example. For anyone who’s read Interstellar Caveman, what follows is the original deleted opening to Chapter 5, where Colin Douglass visits his tabletop wargaming compatriots.
5
Catarrh the Vanquisher stood on the banks of the river at the head of his orc army. His enemy, the dwarves of Morimia, waited on the opposite side. The river looked fordable but crossing it was a dangerous prospect. If he were charged by the dwarves while still in the water, Catarrh and his orcs would surely be cut to pieces.
On the other hand, there was that magical berserker spell which would temporarily give Catarrh, already a fearsome warrior, super strength. If it was cast at the right time, there’d be dwarf bodies piled up on the riverbank by sundown.
Catarrh moved forward. The orcs behind him followed.
Far above them, the faces of the two army commanders, giants compared to Catarrh and the others on the battlefield, stared at each other.
One of them was about to speak.
“No,” said Jeremy. “You can’t do that.”
“What do you mean?” said Martin.
“Crossing a river costs double move points.”
“It’s not a river, it’s a ford.”
“A ford is still a river, you arse.”
“You know what I mean. It’s the crossable part of the river, it incurs no movement penalty.”
“Yes it does.”
“Not in the Denthrasia ruleset.”
“Yes in the Denthrasia ruleset.”
“All right then, show me.”
“I haven’t got a copy of the Denthrasia ruleset…”
“Oh, how convenient!”
“You know we don’t have the ruleset!”
The squabbling had brought the battle to screeching halt for Catarrh. If he weren’t a two inch tall plastic figurine, he’d be a very unhappy warrior right now. As it was, plastic didn’t have feelings. Catarrh, his orcs and the dwarves facing him all stood inert on the cardboard battlefield as their human commanders argued the finer points of the rules of WarThrasher.
‘High Commander’ Jeremy was searching through piles of paper and magazines on a nearby desk. Half a dozen comic books and copies of New Scientist slid onto the floor, their falls broken by empty crisp packets and plates of half-eaten sandwiches.
‘Lord General’ Martin was standing with his hands in the pockets of his sweatsuit jacket. “It’s no good showing me the Krugalish ruleset. We’re not playing Krugal rules.”
“But they’re practically the same!”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Jeremy cursed. “I told you we shouldn’t have played without the ruleset. I knew this would happen!”
“Are you going to let me cross the river now?”
“Get bent. I’m going to find the ruleset online.” Jeremy turned to the desk where his computer sat half-buried beneath a pile of books and game boxes. He swept them aside, but then picked up one particular box. “Ah, I forgot, we could play WarThrasher 9000 A.D.”
Martin scoffed. “Don’t be silly. What about when Colin arrives, he’ll go mad!”
He was referring to the fact that their mutual wargaming compatriot, Colin, despised science fiction. WarThrasher 9000 A.D. was a science fiction version of the original, fantasy-oriented WarThrasher, the tabletop wargame that the guys played every week. To Colin, the sci-fi version was an abomination. Real WarThrasher took place in a fantasy world of swords and spells. To take something as vulgar as science fiction, with all its laser cannons and starships, and bolt it onto the perfect purity of fantasy was like “painting sunglasses onto the Mona Lisa.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Jeremy. “Colin called me earlier. He said he’s ill and he’s not coming tonight.”
Martin rubbed his hands together. “In that case, crack it open!”
As Jeremy opened the game box, the doorbell rang. A moment later, his mother’s voice yelled up from the floor below. “Jeremy! Colin’s here!”
Jeremy and Martin looked at each other as they heard footsteps trudging up the stairs.
“You said he wasn’t coming tonight,” said Martin.
“That’s what he told me.”
“They why is he here?”
“How do I know, what am I, psychic?”
Martin pointed at WarThrasher 9000 A.D. “Well, you’d better put that away!”
The door opened before Jeremy got a chance.
Jeremy stood guiltily holding the game box like a man discovered trying on wife’s lingerie. “Oh… hello, Colin.”
I was very fond of this opening. I kept it right until the end of the editing process and only cut it just prior to the final draft. But it had to go. Why? Well, two reasons.
First reason
The first problem was to do with point of view (POV). A writer can choose to use one of several different types of POV to narrate their novel. I’ll talk about other types in later articles, but I chose to tell Interstellar Caveman in third-person POV, a very common type.
In third-person POV, all characters are referred to by name or third person pronouns (she, he, they). However, the scene is narrated from the perspective of just one of those characters. Therefore, the reader learns only what that character sees and thinks. It’s very similar to a first-person POV. Let’s compare the two.
First-person:
I palmed the fiver from the communion tray. Hopefully, nobody saw me do it.
Third-person:
Wolfgang palmed the fiver from the communion tray. He hoped nobody saw him do it.
Much of the difference is to do with use of pronouns. The I’s become, for example, he or they or a name, but much of the rest can stay the same. It’s even OK to keep the exact original form of second sentence:
Wolfgang palmed the fiver from the communion tray. Hopefully, nobody saw him do it.
That’s because we understand the scene is narrated from the POV of the character. (More specifically this is called the third-person subjective voice.) It’s not the author who hopes Wolfgang doesn’t get caught stealing church funds, rather it’s Wolfgang himself.
So, why use third-person POV instead of first-person? Because you can tell the story from several different angles, which allows for a richer and more complex story. However, it’s trickier to get it right.
Which brings me to the first problem with the deleted scene: the POV is confusing. It might be funny and ‘cinematic’ to narrate the opening from the POV of a plastic figurine and then hand over the narrative to the actual POV character, but it risks confusing the reader. Better to firmly establish the POV character and leave that unchanged throughout the scene…and I saw no value in narrating the whole scene from Catarrh the Vanquisher’s perspective.
Second reason
As I said earlier, a scene is a mini-story. It has a beginning, a middle and an end, and follows a single character undergoing a change or trying to achieve something. It adds an important piece to the wider story. What does this particular mini-story about Catarrh the Vanquisher add?
Nothing. It’s just a gag.
Don’t get me wrong. Gags are wonderful, noble, gorgeous things and I endeavour to stuff my stories full of them. But they ought to respect writing conventions as much as any other part of the writing. This one didn’t, so I vanquished it as mercilessly as a two-inch tall plastic orc warrior might. It wasn’t enough that I was fond of it and thought it clever.
Or, as Arthur Quiller-Couch said:
“Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it — whole-heartedly — and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.”
And if you want to know exactly how the revised opening of Chapter 5 now reads…you can buy the book (did I mention it’s available at fine online retailers?).
Bonus tip: Don’t leave things on cutting room floor
Just because you remove something, doesn’t mean you have to erase it completely. Instead of deleting any scenes altogether, do what I do: store them in an archive folder. You might find space for them (or a piece of them) somewhere else. I’ve even removed scenes from one novel and reused bits and gags in a different novel altogether!
