Cut Up Your Scenes
In Step 6 of The Book Architecture Method we advise writers to cut up their entire manuscript into its separate scenes.
Few things are more scary. 
We might lose track of the order that the scenes were supposed to go in. Some of our awkward scenes might be exposed, having to stand alone for the first time. We might even lose a scene.
Subconsciously, the belief that a manuscript is Humpty Dumpty continues to persist, that once broken apart it can never be put back together again. Yet, intelligent planning is not the enemy of creative genius!
On the contrary, such a bold move actually promotes connections between scenes. The scene is now unique, and can be put anywhere, in relation to any other scene. With this flexibility, it is easier to perceive holes in the narrative; with this mobility, it is easier to combine things that need to be combined.
Chances are you have arrived at your revision after some time spent tinkering with your book, as opposed to tackling it. You’re going to have to make a break from what you have already created. You might as well make it now, and make it sure, so that you can actually benefit from your revision whether you use this method or not.
You can keep a copy of the old draft somewhere.
That would be the prudent thing to do, although Sondra and I threw caution to the wind as we were approaching her final revision. It was now or never. We pulled out the last draft, which we had been studying, grabbed the scissors and the stapler—and went at it.
While separating your scenes into individual files can be done digitally, there is great satisfaction in slicing your manuscript into purposeful ribbons and finishing each pile off with further instructions on a post-it note. (Note: when The Book Architecture Method software debuts we will fully retract this statement and the electronic processing of scenes will become the only recommended way!)
We did this over a few sessions, using the long workroom table at Grub Street. Some people are very conscious of not using a lot of paper in their life, but I would beg an exception in this case. (Whose professor said, “It is the aspiration of every tree to become a book?”) There is something uniquely satisfying about your work taking over an entire room. It is an assertion of your identity as a writer.
The final day we came to Grub, we had our reservations for the red room. I should back up and mention that Sondra’s memoir is about her sister, Margie, dying of cancer. It’s about a lot of things, and bringing them all together while extending certain parts and dropping others were what we were there to accomplish.
When we walked in there was one book on the table, actually it was on the floor right near the table, but it was the only non-fixture in the room: book, table, filing cabinet, trash can, chair. The book read: MARGIE. It was a collection of poetry from seven years ago; no one knows how it got there. Above MARGIE, it read, “Strong Rx Medicine.”
I think it is safe to say that at that moment, we felt our success would be assured.
She still has her last draft to go. But she has a team of scenes at her disposal now—she’s not going in alone. Each one of those scenes wants to be there and with a little coaching can take care of themselves. It’s game time!
Sondra Levenson said on Apr 14, 2011 at 7:25 AM:
Stuart,
You nailed it! Although I admit I was nervous in the beginning, I actually loved the experience of cutting up the scenes and just finished rewriting Chapter One. It's so much better. I was through with "tinkering" with my manuscript and was ready for "tackling" it. Looking forward to working together on this final phase.
Best,
Sondra
Jennifer Peace said on Apr 14, 2011 at 8:15 AM:
Following Stuart's advice evoked these reflections:
Nothing is neat as pins
Things break. They crack, decay, fray, fall apart, go to pieces. They burn, turn to ash, dissolve in water. There are so many ways to destroy a thing.
Repair takes patience. Mending, putting-together, fixing – it all takes measured care. But there is joy in making. I suppose without destruction we wouldn’t have much need for creation.
Sometimes things break and sometimes we break them on purpose. Today I tore my manuscript to pieces. It sat, content, for many years in a spiral binder looking very real, very finished. But today I opened the front cover and ripped each sheet out, leaving a line of tattered edges caught in the bent spirals, leaving sheets of paper scattered on my kitchen floor and table.
My teacher calls it blueprinting my book. I took it apart to see what it was made of, to see where the foundation was strong and where it needed reinforcing, to examine each brick. I cut and crossed out and divided and stapled parts together trying to find the scenes that tell the story I think I’m trying to tell.
The results were not pretty. I have 29 scenes. Only 8 could I honestly say were in decent condition. 21 were unfit to hold up anything, let alone something as potentially substantial as a book.
It was depressing. Is there a book here at all? It looked so solid, bound together. Now it is rubble, as if I’d tucked sticks of dynamite between the brittle pages and blown it to pieces. I’m back to the beginning. Do I have the energy to renovate it, to rebuild it? Do I have the heart? Do I have the skill? I’m full of doubt and dread. After all these months and years could this pile of paper and words really amount to nothing? To a handful of mediocre scenes?
The ray of hope, what keeps me going, is that thought that just maybe there is a seed in this mess that could be the heart of a real book. Maybe I can learn the skills that will help me build something better, something stronger. And then there is that joy.
So I cast my lot with letter with all their chaos and possibility. If I wanted an easy life, I should have become an accountant arranging numbers in little lines, neat as pins.