Writer Wednesdays: Murdering Your Darlings
The man, the myth, the legend, Vernon D. Morningstar
In the writing world, “murdering your darlings” means ruthlessly editing out even the parts of your work you're proud of or really love, if they don't ultimately serve the story or improve the overall piece. A writer's words become personified and even if we know cutting out a passage will improve the overall story, it can feel like we are killing a beloved.
For me, rather than killing, which seems far too permanent, I tuck my most loved omissions into a file I call “My Darlings” where I can go to visit them when I feel the need. In my upcoming debut novel, The Summer Knows, forthcoming June 17th, 2025 from Koehler Books, there was one darling I truly loved, but I knew taking it out helped improve the pace of the book.
So, I thought I would post my poor, murdered darling here. It is a passage where Adrienne and her grandfather are taking their boat out to sell bait and sandwiches to people out on their boat on the intercoastal. I love it because it shows the deep bond between the two of them and the great love Adrienne has for her grandfather.
My teacher, the great novelist John Dufresne once said fiction is a “lie that tells a truth”. Although The Summer Knows, is a work of fiction, there is a thread of truth, my childhood, woven through the novel. Part of that thread is my unwavering love and devotion to my grandfather. Vernon D. Morningstar was more my father than a grandparent. He raised me as his own and loved me unconditionally. He was my North Star, My hero. This book is my love letter to him, to the quirky small town I grew up in, and to my childhood.
I hope you enjoy this tragically killed darling of mine.
Christopher got up to help her with the fishing gear. She scampered away from the edge of the dock so he couldn’t unless he got out of the boat. The last thing she wanted was his help. She had vowed long ago to keep Christopher out of her life as best she could. That included any help he offered.
“I can handle it,” she said to Christopher, shielding her eyes against the sun. She drew her gear close to her chest.
Christopher rolled his eyes and turned to peer down into the cabin. “You think he should be going out today?”
“He’s going to die. He might as well enjoy what he has left. If he’s feeling up to it, I’m taking him out.” Adrienne cringed at her own frankness, but it was the truth. Gramps was going to die pretty soon. “Since he’s refused to do chemo anymore, the nausea has stopped. This is a good time for him. The doctor said it happens like this. It’s like an Indian summer for him.”
“I know. You’re right. How many golden days is he going to get?” Christopher held onto the outrigger. “I’ll be up at the shop. Stay close to the shore, okay?”
He looked sad. Adrienne knew he cared about Gramps a great deal. Why else would he work at the fish market for the little pay he got? There wasn’t a person she could name in the whole town that didn’t love Gramps. He was that kind of man. He always had a kind word to say and a song to hum. The café was always filled with old men sitting around trading stories with Gramps. Before the cancer, Gramps could always be found behind a barbeque for any community picnic. He even played Santa for the Women’s Club holiday fundraisers.
“Sure. You know, I’m almost fifteen. I can handle this.” Adrienne creased her brow as Christopher hopped off the boat onto the deck.
“That’s right, tomorrow is your birthday.” Christopher smiled.
“How’d you know that?”
“Come on, I am a reporter.”
Adrienne rolled her eyes at him.
“I just worry he’ll get sick while you’re out on the water.” Christopher jammed his hands in his pockets.
“We’ll be fine, Chris.” Adrienne jumped onto the boat, sticking a perfect landing though the boat rocked violently.
“I hate when you call me that,” Christopher said with a long sigh.
“I know,” She gave him a comical face, half mocking, half amused. Her little war with him was only mildly unpleasant.
“Fine, fine,” Christopher said, throwing his hands up in the air. Before he turned to head off towards the path, he called to her. “But, call on the CB if anything happens. A jet ski is better than nothing. I can get to it in a few minutes.”
“Fine,” she said, relenting. Then to change the subject, Adrienne turned her focus to Christopher’s long-term Fiancée. “I saw Rachel at the post office yesterday. She was really giving it to the postmaster. I’ve never seen her yell like that before.”
“Yeah, she was waiting for a package from her mum, back in England. Seems the post lost it. It’s really not Gary’s fault, but Rachel was mad and he, unfortunately, was the one to get the brunt of her wrath.” Christopher scratched his head and looked away from Adrienne and down the row of boats tied to the dock. “I just hope the box shows up soon or I’ll never sleep again. There were some of her childhood things in it.”
“It must suck for her to be so far away from home,” Adrienne said as she tried in vain to pull her hair back in a ponytail.
“It’s been a hard adjustment for her. She does miss England, but there are better opportunities for us here.”
“Have you two set a date yet? For the wedding?”
“We’re in no hurry, but I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”
Gramps came out on deck. He smiled at Adrienne. His wrinkled weather-beaten face was nothing but joy—as it always was—when he was headed out on the water. Gramps’s blue eyes sparkled as vibrant as a child’s in the bright sun. Adrienne loved to look at him, his white shock of hair smoothed back with VO5, his brown trim chest peeking through his unbuttoned faded Hawaiian shirt. He had been handsome and strong as a young man and those qualities lingered now well into his seventies.
“Adrienne and I will dance at your wedding.” Gramps put his arm around her and looked up at Christopher. “I love a good wedding. Ready to get going, Adrienne?”
“I’m always ready,” she said, helping Gramps get settled in his chair. She had to fight the sadness away, thinking about the small possibility Gramps would make it to Christopher’s wedding.
An hour later, Adrienne moved the Hello Dolly, through the water. It felt as if there was no difference between air and ocean. The water was dark and cool. The shore was lined with estates hidden by seagrass, mangroves, and palmettos. Only a few small homes tucked in between the massive mansions remained now. Gran and Gramps cottage was amongst the few remaining original bungalows that first were erected when the town was new. The whole place was once a pineapple plantation before the First Great War. Adrienne tried to imagine the town as rows and rows of spiky pineapple plants.
Gramps sat next to her as she stood at the wheel guiding the boat in lazy curves around the markers in the channel and the occasional boat moving, if possible, more slowly than theirs. Dots of white bobbed past on the swells. They didn’t talk. Gramps never minded. He liked to talk as little as possible, especially when out on the water. Adrienne hoisted up the bright yellow flag that read; “Hungry? Out of bait? Just honk!” It waved above their heads on a pole as they plowed through the water jumpy with wake.
A series of bright staccato honks made her bolt up and seek out the direction to take their floating lunch & bait wagon. Their floating café/bait shop was well-known along the intercostal. In the slow summer months, they made better money out on the boat than back at the café. There were always fishermen in need of food and bait, no matter what time of year it was.
“Over there,” Gramps said, pointing towards the mouth of the inlet as she turned the wheel and brought the boat about.
Adrienne could see Gramps’s blue eyes reflect the sparks of the sun off the water as she commanded the boat towards their customer. Gramps was still humming. He always had a song to sing. Sometimes he would break out into words, but the hum was always there it seemed, even if you couldn’t hear it. He looked young for seventy. He didn’t look like a man about to die. Adrienne tried to absorb his image, taking him in. She wanted to be able to close her eyes and always see him in the sunlight, looking out at the water. After he was gone, she would still have all of those moments to remember. The golden moments of Gramps’s golden time.
“Well, it’s almost three. We’ll let this be the last of the day, okay, Dolly?” Gramps put his arm around her shoulder, and she put her head on his. Dolly, his pet name for her, as in Hello, Dolly, a favorite song of his from the mental playlist of songs he liked to sing. It always made her secretly happy that the boat was named after her.
“Sounds good to me, I’m ready to go in,” Adrienne said as she inhaled his scent. The Old Spice completed the intoxicating cocktail of smells that was summer on the Back Bay.
They neared the large Boston Whaler moored on the sandbar just off Beer Can Island, a small patch of sand kept alive by a clutch of mangroves. A deep trough about 10 feet wide separated it from the mainland. It was a popular place to stop to swim and fish. Adrienne loved to troll the shallows at low tide for sea urchins, letting them “urch” in her hand, feeling them prickle as they did so. Gramps wouldn’t let her eat them, which was her favorite – to suck out the raw yellow pulpy meat. The water was too polluted. She wondered if she would grow an extra eye or something one day from swimming in it so much.
“Geez, this is a great little operation you got going on here,” a red man with a large belly said as Adrienne threw a rope to him so they could connect.
He took off his Dallas Cowboy’s hat and wiped the sweat from his pink forehead with the soft canvas. The Rolex Submariner on the guy’s wrist bent the light into sharp triangles that splattered against her face. She’d seen so many variations of the same watch on many of their customers – more when they would take the half-hour trek up north towards Palm Beach to sling sandwiches, cold beer, squid, and ballyhoo.
“Thanks, my good man,” Gramps said, holding onto the outrigger with one hand and tipping his blue skinny-brim hat with the other. “It keeps us out of the poor house. Right, Adrienne?”
Gramps smiled and nudged Adrienne who smiled at the very well-done man. He was going to hurt later, Adrienne thought. She wanted to tell him to go home and rub some Sarna on his burn, but it seemed that many tourists didn’t like that kind of advice.
“I’ll take some of those chicken sandwiches and a pound of bait shrimp.” The guy pulled out a money clip stuffed with folded bills. He peeled off two twenties and handed them to Adrienne who replaced the money with the bag of food and bait.
“What’re you out here looking to catch?” Gramps asked as Adrienne handled the money. A souvenir from the three weeks Gramps spent fighting in WWII before being wounded and sent home.
“Ah, we plan to get some of those Snooks we’ve heard so much about.” The guy handed off the bag to one of the other guys on his boat. He assumed the position of shooting the shit; his feet spread and arms resting on his large belly.
“They’re called “Snook”, not Snooks.” Adrienne pointed her hand, full of dollar bills towards the other side of the island. “And you should be over there, where the island almost butts up against the inlet shoal. The bait fish fly through that current and the Snook just sit and wait for ‘em.”
The man paused and looked at Gramps. Gramps nodded in approval.
“Adrienne is the best in town.” Gramps looked down at her and placed a hand on top of her tangled mess of dark hair. “She knows this place better than anyone. She’s been raised in these waters.”
“Thanks, Kid,” said the man, hiking his sunglasses back up on his face. He pushed her outstretched hand back, curling her fingers around the money. “You keep it, Kid. Tip money.”
“Thanks. I hope you look for us next time you’re out here,” Adrienne said, stuffing the wad in the back pocket of her cut-offs. “And good luck. They’re buggers, those Snook.”
“That they are, Dolly.” Gramps gave a low laugh, so soft and gentle only Adrienne could have picked it out of the breeze.