"I just wrote the perfect sentence," she said. "And you think I would be happy about it."
Yes. Author X and I were dishing the literary dirt again. "I take it that you aren't happy about it?" I asked.
"Of course not. You know how it goes. Your best stuff ends up on the cutting room floor."
She was right. It was William Faulkner who said, “In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”
'Tis sad but true. Edits are often most brutal when they happen to your personal favorite slice of creative pie.
Currently I'm still elbow deep in the first draft of Book 3 (ish) a.k.a. The Honeymoon Phase. It's pretty much all hearts and flowers now. No need to break out the heavy artillery...yet. But my dear friend Author X is in Re-writeland where "Delete" is always the trending topic. It's not fun, not kind and for the most part ranks up there with having your gums scraped.
If ever a writer tells you they enjoy the editing process, be warned. They are pulling your leg. Hard.
I wished her well and sent her about her duties, armed with a healthy supply of white-out, red pens, and a hug for luck.
Twenty four hours later she appeared at my door. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes all hollowed out and dragging around grey circles. She was dehydrated. I didn't ask how it went. Didn't have to.
"Chapter Five didn't make it," she reported, her mouth falling at the edges. "It was quite the carnage."
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head."Perhaps, there ought to be some sort of eulogy, some formal way of saying goodbye..."
Perhaps. Farewell fine paragraphs, I knew ye well. Perhaps not. Until then we'll continue plugging away - one carefully chosen word at a time, wielding our mighty pens and swords. And of course, control, alt, delete.
Yes. Author X and I were dishing the literary dirt again. "I take it that you aren't happy about it?" I asked.
"Of course not. You know how it goes. Your best stuff ends up on the cutting room floor."
She was right. It was William Faulkner who said, “In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”
'Tis sad but true. Edits are often most brutal when they happen to your personal favorite slice of creative pie.
Currently I'm still elbow deep in the first draft of Book 3 (ish) a.k.a. The Honeymoon Phase. It's pretty much all hearts and flowers now. No need to break out the heavy artillery...yet. But my dear friend Author X is in Re-writeland where "Delete" is always the trending topic. It's not fun, not kind and for the most part ranks up there with having your gums scraped.
If ever a writer tells you they enjoy the editing process, be warned. They are pulling your leg. Hard.
I wished her well and sent her about her duties, armed with a healthy supply of white-out, red pens, and a hug for luck.
Twenty four hours later she appeared at my door. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes all hollowed out and dragging around grey circles. She was dehydrated. I didn't ask how it went. Didn't have to.
"Chapter Five didn't make it," she reported, her mouth falling at the edges. "It was quite the carnage."
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head."Perhaps, there ought to be some sort of eulogy, some formal way of saying goodbye..."
Perhaps. Farewell fine paragraphs, I knew ye well. Perhaps not. Until then we'll continue plugging away - one carefully chosen word at a time, wielding our mighty pens and swords. And of course, control, alt, delete.
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