The voices made me do it. Strident voices, screaming insistence. Nagging away. Do it. Kill your babies. The horror of pre-dawn. Sneaking up on myself. Knowing it changes everything. She pleaded with me not to. Mothers are like that. She’d always loved it the way it was. Please don’t, her hand on my arm. Shaking her off, shaking off the doubts. Thinking about it now, it wasn’t so hard. Resolve gave me unexpected strength. Again and again. Repeated cuts, ignoring the mess. Slashing, as if in a daze. Cut, cut, eyes glazing. Unexpectedly emotionless. Kill your darlings, he said—the master of horror, cheerleader to the other voices in my head. Slash, kill … cut, kill … slice, kill them all. Knowing it changes everything. Life will never be the same. Awakening the savage inside me. Coldly discriminate. Cut, slash, slice. Left breathless, head in hands.
There’s just me now—an author, alone with a finished manuscript.
(157 words)
I refuse to kill my darlings. I might give them a makeover, or maybe a time-out, but I'll never kill them! I love Stephen King's book on writing but I don't have to buy every little thing he's selling there.
That said, it takes a lot of practice to know what to keep and what to trash. I worry that new writers will take that kind of advice literally and won't know what the heck they're supposed to do with that thing they've just written and have grown to love.
Throw it all out?? Really??
Well, no...not really.