Killing My Babies: A Pantser's Lament

I killed a man named Martinez last week—fictionally, of course. He never belonged in my novel. But damn, I loved him.

Three chapters, 5,000 words, and one detective subplot that hijacked my entire book. Detective Martinez stared back at me from the screen, frozen mid-sentence as he fed kibble to his ex-wife's neurotic poodle. He'd appeared in chapter four like an uninvited dinner guest who'd somehow become the life of the party. I'd given him a gambling problem, a jazz collection, and dreams of opening a club called "The Blue Note." By chapter seven, he was investigating underground poker games in Chinatown, following leads that had nothing to do with my actual plot about art forgery in 1970s Laguna Beach.

This is the occupational hazard of being a pantser—one of those writers who follows inspiration down every rabbit hole, writing by the seat of their pants rather than any sensible plan. For twenty years, I'd worn this label like a badge of honor. "Outlines kill the muse," I'd proclaimed at writing workshops, waving dismissively at those plotters with their color-coded index cards. "Real stories emerge organically. You can't manufacture inspiration."

Real stories, it turns out, also need to make sense.

Martinez had grown from a throwaway character into someone I genuinely loved. He'd started as "Detective #2" in a single scene, but something about his voice—weary, sardonic, unexpectedly tender with that ridiculous poodle—had captured my imagination. I'd written an entire backstory about his failed marriage, his late-night saxophone practice, his secret recipe for jambalaya. He felt more real than some people I knew.

He also had absolutely nothing to do with my book, Canvas of Secrets.

I tried everything to keep him—art expert, gallery security, maybe the poodle saw the forgery. Each fix was worse than the last. Martinez deserved better than narrative contortions. He deserved his own story, not being awkwardly retrofitted into mine.

The delete key felt warm under my finger. Before I could lose my nerve, I created a new document: Deleted Scenes - Canvas of Secrets. I cut Martinez and his entire subplot, watching months of inspired writing disappear into literary limbo. At least he'd have company—that folder already contained a wedding scene, two flashbacks, and a philosophical monologue about the meaning of seagulls.

That night, humbled and slightly nauseated, I did something I'd sworn never to do. I bought outlining software.

Snowflake Method promised to organize my creative chaos into manageable plot points. The irony burned—a seventy-year-old man learning story structure like a college freshman. The software asked impertinent questions: What's your protagonist's goal? How does each scene advance the plot? What's the central conflict? Questions that would have saved Martinez from narrative exile.

I spent the following week mapping my remaining chapters. Every scene justified, every character serving a purpose. It felt like forcing a jazz improvisation into sheet music—technically correct but somehow diminished. The wild creativity that had given birth to Martinez was now tamed, domesticated, and put to use.

The new method worked. I finished the novel in half the time, with minimal backtracking and no detective subplots that led nowhere. But late at night, I'd open that deleted scenes file and read passages like letters from a former self—passionate but inefficient, inspired but undisciplined. There was Martinez, still practicing saxophone in his empty apartment, hoping his ex-wife might take him back if he just figured out the right song to play.

I don't miss the anxiety of not knowing where my story was heading, the panic of realizing I'd written myself into yet another corner. But I do miss the surprises. The moment when a character like Martinez would walk into a scene unannounced and make himself at home in my imagination, bringing his problems and possibilities.

These days, I outline rigorously. My plots are tight, my pacing is controlled, and my word count is efficient. But I keep that deleted scenes file, a memorial to beautiful inefficiency. Sometimes the best characters arrive uninvited. And if we're lucky, they come back—in a better story, one that's truly theirs.

Killing your darlings hurts. But you never really bury them. You just wait until it's their turn to live again.