Now I know why Hemingway drank

15 Aug

It had to be the rewrites. Here I am, on a gorgeous summer Sunday in  Colorado, revising my first draft. But that’s not the worst of it, the not being outside part. It’s the cutting. I have to butcher my little darlings, my sweet turns of phrase that I know in my heart of hearts don’t belong. They are clever but don’t pull their weight in the overall scene, so THWACK! I eliminate them with my word machete. I feel like a huge, hairy, ill-tempered bouncer strong-arming pixies and wood nymphs. But it must be done.

And I have a LOT more words than Hemingway ever did. Maybe that was his secret—he was always a little buzzed, so it was less painful to delete words, phrases, and whole entire sections.

I’ll continue on, sober (well, for a while at least), and let you know how I feel when I have a lean, superbly paced, not-a-word-out-of-place story. If that ever happens…

Thank you for your support!

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