Grave Things Like Love: Hunting for Ghosts and Killing Your Darlings, A Guest Post by Sara Bennett Wealer
I’m on maternity leave! During this time, a few of my favorite authors offered to step up and write guest posts so that this blog would remain active while I adjust to my new role as a mother. I may also be a bit slower to respond. Thanks for understanding and for being so supportive of me, my family, and my blog. Want to donate a few dollars to keep this blog running or perhaps contribute to my diaper fund? You can do so on Venmo or Paypal.
GRAVE THINGS LIKE LOVE: Hunting for Ghosts and Killing Your Darlings, A Guest Post by Sara Bennett Wealer
Ah… editing. Time to figure out what’s working in a story and what’s not, what needs to be added, and what should come out. The process can be painful. It also can be fun. For me, working on my latest book GRAVE THINGS LIKE LOVE, it was a little of both.
Preliminary feedback for my YA romance in a family-owned funeral home was that it was a bit of a downer. I think my editor’s exact word were, “It’s all so tame,” which (pun intended) felt like a death knell for my story. I knew I had to inject some excitement, which led me to brainstorm a romance between my main character, Elaine, and Xander, a new boy in town who’s obsessed with ghost hunting.
The ghost hunting angle opened all sorts of possibilities for Elaine to explore her world—from whether she wants to take over her family’s funeral business to the massive Victorian funeral home itself.
And while I added fun elements, I also had to cut passages I loved. One in particular did its best to stay in, even as it became clearer and clearer that it was dragging down the book’s pacing without adding anything truly valuable.
The chapter, in which Elaine tries to help her family compete with a rival funeral home by bringing in a “therapy dog,” gave me so much joy to write. It has a dog! It has a funeral service gone awry! It has poop, and who doesn’t find poop hilarious?
Finally, my editor gave it to me straight: As much as I might love this chapter, it needed to go. Most writers are familiar with the phrase “Kill your darlings,” and that’s what I did. I took the chapter out of the final version, but I held onto it, looking for an opportunity to share.
Now… here it is. To fully understand the context of this deleted scene, I hope you’ll read the whole book, which is available now from Delacorte Press. GRAVE THINGS LIKE LOVE is a contemporary YA romance with a paranormal twist. See if you agree that this fun little passage belonged on the cutting room floor.
I turn down my music and start the recorder on my phone so I can brainstorm out loud. We already have a Twitter account, and yesterday I put us on Instagram. But I quickly realized I have no idea what to post. Memories’ IG is all quotes about remembrance and tips on planning for later life alternating with shots of big sprays of flowers. I’d rather die than copy them. I plan features on Mom and Dad. I even plan to do one on Dakota. But after that, I’m out of ideas. I’m certainly not going to live stream an embalming.
If I really want to compete with Memories, then I need a hook.
Inspiration strikes when I open the website for a funeral home in Minnesota and see a picture of a chocolate lab.
“Dad!” I shout out to the patio, where he and Mom are having an after-dinner cocktail. “What about a therapy dog?”
My family can’t have pets because dogs make too much noise and we’re allergic to cats, and nobody has time to clean cages or go to obedience training or anything else that good pet owners do. So since we have no animals of our own, I call up Chuck’s farm and asked if he has any dogs that have been trained to work with the disabled or visit hospitals. He tells me two of his dogs were trained to do search and rescue with the fire department, and one of them is really good with people. Will that work?
I drive out to see the dog myself. She’s a shepherd mix named Bernadine, sort of medium-sized and smiley. She comes right up when I get out of my car and nudges my hand with her nose. I kneel down and she licks my face, but not in an obnoxious sort of way. Bernadine is gentle and adorable. She’s perfect. I take her photo and post it on our Instagram.
Please join us in welcoming the newest member of our team, Bernadine the comfort dog. Bernadine is available to be a soothing presence at viewings and services. Let her reassuring and loving presence help ease your grief.
The next visitation on the schedule is Mr. Foster. I convince Dakota, who’s doing his first solo consultation, to talk up Bernadine to the family.
“They want to know if she’s had flea treatments,” Dakota tells me after the meeting. “Is she up to date on all her vaccinations?”
“I’m sure she is. Why aren’t they more excited?” I watch the Fosters exit through our big front door. “It’s a comfort dog!”
Dakota just shrugs, and whatever. Clearly he lacks imagination. Once the Fosters experience how sweet and comforting Bernadine is, they’ll be telling everyone about her. Pretty soon people will be flocking to Gillies, demanding Bernadine, while the millennial morons at Memories look at us with envy. Now that I’m on a roll, I have to admit all this work has actually been sort of fun. Maybe I have a knack for this funeral director thing after all. Maybe I could take it over and keep the business running for another generation.
Saturday morning at 11, I have Bernadine ready on the front walk with a bow on her collar that matches the flowers on Mr. Foster’s casket. She sits, tail thumping, smiling at people as they go in. The younger families “Ooh” and “Ahhh” over her. They come up to pat her back and scratch her ears.
“I didn’t know Pops had a dog,” says one guy.
“Oh, this isn’t Mr. Foster’s dog,” I tell him. “She’s a comfort dog. She’s calming and gives unconditional love.”
The guy nods, then follows the rest of the crowd inside.
So far so good.
When the flood of visitors slows to a trickle, I take Bernadine inside. People are lined up, passing the casket. Others are sitting in the rows of chairs, chatting quietly. And I realize I’m not really sure what to do with Bernadine. Do I take her up to people who look distraught? (Right now, nobody really fits that description.) Do I walk her around the room? (Something tells me that would be too much of a distraction.) I opt for selecting a spot close to the center of the room and waiting for people to come seek comfort themselves.
The only ones who approach are little kids, and their parents look more annoyed than anything else that their children want to get out of the viewing line to play with a dog. Not that Bernadine is interested in playing. She starts tugging her leash, dragging me over toward where a woman perches on a chair with a polka-dot purse at her feet.
Bernadine drags until she’s close enough to stick her nose right into the purse. The woman looks down just as Bernadine pulls out a sandwich baggie filled with trail mix. Before I can stop her, she is happily munching, scattering granola and M&Ms everywhere while people grab their own purses in case she sniffs out their snack stashes, too.
Dakota gives me a what the hell is going on? look. I apologize, pull Bernadine into the corner, and hand her leash to Astrid, who’s been ordered to help today because Mom is at a fundraising luncheon and Dad is at a regional funeral directors’ meeting in Batesville.
“Can you make sure she doesn’t go anywhere while I clean up that mess?” I say.
Astrid looks reluctant, but she can’t refuse since all eyes are on us. I try to be inobtrusive as I get out the non-electric vacuum.
Then the moaning starts.
I look up to see people waving their hands in front of their noses. Heads periscope, looking for the source of the stench that rapidly fills the room. Astrid is gagging over in the corner, one hand covering her mouth, while Bernadine crouches over a stream of doggie diarrhea.
I rush over. Astrid thrusts the leash into my hands and rushes for the bathroom just as Bernadine horks up a pile of half-digested trail mix. Meanwhile Mr. Foster lies serenely in his casket, oblivious to the fact that his funeral now smells like a toilet.
I’m angry. At Astrid for running off. At the woman who brough trail mix to a funeral. But most of all, I’m angry at myself for thinking I could pull this off without knowing what in the hell I’m doing, with a dog that probably has never been off the farm in its life. Clearly nerves and peanut M&Ms have teamed up to destroy Bernadine’s stomach.
I drag Bernadine out to the back patio, and wrap her leash around the step railing. She sits with her tail wagging, smiling as if to let me know she’s all better now. I leave her and go back inside, grabbing a roll of paper towels on the way.
Astrid must have texted Mom an SOS because I can hear her voice as I enter the foyer. Thank God her luncheon was downtown and not someplace out in the middle of nowhere. She’s giving a very gracious apology, promising that the visitation will continue as soon as we get the mess cleaned up. She invites everyone onto the front lawn, where, as luck would have it, the ice cream truck has stopped in the street.
“Treats are on us for all of our young guests,” she announces. “And for the young at heart, too!”
This makes most of the room happier. They head outside as Mom passes me in the hallway, fishing her credit card out of her wallet. She meets my eye and doesn’t have to tell me what my job is.
I wipe up the poop and the vomit. I scrub the rug with carpet shampoo. Then I spray the room with air neutralizer and light a few vanilla-scented candles.
I want to cry.
I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to help my family’s business. I’ve been juggling fandom stuff, schoolwork, my social life, and everything else I’m expected to help out with around here, and all I have to show for it is a bucket of poopy vomit water.
Bernadine smiles at me all the way back to Chuck’s farm.
“How’d it go?” Chuck asks when we get out of the car. I mumble something that sounds like “fine,” let him know I think she threw up all the chocolate but to keep an eye on her just in case, then walk away as quickly as possible, because Bernadine is still smiling like I’m her favorite person in the world.
By the time I get home, the visitation’s over and the whole house smells like vanilla. I go upstairs and flop onto the bed, feeling completely defeated, except for one bright spot—the thing that’s kept me going as this crappy day has gotten progressively crappier: We’re ghost hunting tonight.
Grave Things Like Love: Hunting for Ghosts and Killing Your Darlings, A Guest Post by Sara Bennett Wealer
