Murder of the literary sort

I did it. I didn’t want to. I tried not to. But in the end, I’m guilty.

I killed my darlings.

Yeah, I read that brutal critique. Turns out I wasn’t being as overly-sensitive as I thought I was; that critic was, as a third party called it, “fucking rude.” She also referred to the critic’s style as “like fucking a cactus.” So I guess I was validated in getting fucking pissed off.

Still, the critic had some valid points, and I had to rewrite parts of the opening to my first chapter, parts that at the time I had considered to be quite clever. Turns out I’m not as clever as I thought I was. Bye-bye, darlings. It was nice knowing you.

I have to admit that it’s a little better despite the murder. My “darlings,” of course. No characters dead–yet 😉 –but many, many words died tonight. New words were born, though, and like the proverbial phoenix they rose triumphantly from the ashes of the old.

Okay, so it’s not that good. Yet. I still had to resubmit for more critique, and there will be more revisions. That proverbial phoenix might just turn to ash again. But there will be more phoenixes. More triumph. More improvement, until it’s solid gold, man.

I got this.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s