Every writer has that sentence, the one that feels brilliant in the moment but somehow manages to feel foolish before someone else’s eyes. It happened to me not too long ago in a meeting with my editor.
We were working on a piece with the intention to develop it into something serious and profound. Her eyes scanned the document as they always did, critically, but not negatively. In a helpful way, because that is, after all, her job. She had the usual notes, all the advice I was used to: This is redundant. That is too wordy. This sentence is too long.
By that point, I had trained myself to read a sentence or two ahead of her, just to brace for impact, steeling myself against a harsh critique, a dreadful look. And thank God I did, because then came the moment. A moment I hadn’t realized I was dreading.
In my defense, I honestly don’t even remember writing it or why. But there it was. My heart started to beat fast, my legs began to tremble. As my eyes landed on the words “I didn’t just snap. I snapped, crackled, and popped” I thought about deleting it before she saw it. I thought about distracting her, hoping she’d miss it. I even considered leaving the room entirely and calling the session right there.. But there was no time for any of that. So I braced for impact and slowly turned my head toward her, as if in slow motion. I knew her well enough to know that her eyes would snag on the line and she would have something to say about it.
Just as expected, when she reached the words, she slowly turned her head toward me, a look of judgment on her face, a playful curl at the corner of her lips.
The verdict came sharp and constructively critical.
“Really, snapped, crackled, and popped? That’s how I describe my joints in the morning. You would not describe rage that way in serious literature.”
One has to understand as a writer when you meet with your editor there will be plenty of battles to fight so you must choose wisely. I weighed my options. Do I give in, like I usually do? Or do I fight for my darlings? I chose to fight.
“Come on, snap, crackle, and pop. Rice Krispies, you know?”
“I understand the reference. That doesn’t justify its use here. My opinion still stands. Take it out.”
I pressed further. “Why does it have to go?”
“Because it’s not mature enough. It doesn’t fit the context of the piece.”
“You’re calling me immature now?”
“I didn’t say that. I said it’s not mature enough. There’s a difference.”
I decided to try a different angle, a peace offering.
“How about the writer’s graveyard? We put it on probation, revisit it later?”
“Nine times out of ten I’d agree with you. But this is a one-out-of-ten case. It must go. Into. The.”
I didn’t like where she was going with this.
“The void.”
“The void? You’ve officially crossed a line.”
“A line? The only line being crossed is the one between serious literature and a breakfast cereal advertisement. I am simply helping you prune your garden. Let’s stay focused, please.”
“Focused I am. Focused. And unfocused is you, you’re stuck in your path. You can’t see the light at the end of this tunnel. Snap, crackle, and pop has a light at the end of the literary tunnel. There absolutely is one, and it’s the tunnel we are in right now. You and I are aboard the train, and we are reaching the light, but you are not allowing yourself to see it.”
Then she did something she had always done and pulled out one of her wordy, well-said, Ivy League sentences.
“That ‘light’ you’re describing is just a sudden flash of neon advertising inside a piece of serious prose. It’s not about being stuck in a path; it’s about respecting the contract we have with the reader. They come to this book for immersion, for depth, for an escape into a specific world. A reference to breakfast cereal, no matter how ‘clever’ you find it, is a neon sign that yanks them out and reminds them they are reading. I am not pruning your garden. I am removing a garish garden gnome from the middle of a serious memorial.”
I just sat there, letting it sink in. She had made an excellent point. Snap, crackle, and pop was leaving my literary vocabulary. Forever.
“You have a point,” I said. “I think it’s time to kill my darlings, but I’m going to need your help on this one.”
“I’m right here,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder, a smirk still on her face.
I scrolled up the document and placed my eyes on the words, slowly dragging my cursor across them. I went to hit delete, but the pain got to me.
“I can’t do it. No, no, no, please. I can’t do it.”
“Daniel,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “You are a talented and prolific writer. Do not let snap, crackle, and pop ruin it for you. It’s not worth it. Get rid of it”
“Okay,” I said, with a sigh of defeat.
“Okay. Let’s do this then.”
She grabbed my index finger, the words still highlighted, and slowly moved it toward the delete button. My eyes made their way to the screen and poof. The words were gone, never to be used again.