I just sat down at my laptop and realised I’d started my novel in the wrong place. I was going to have to ‘kill my darlings’.
Luckily I haven’t written much so it wasn’t too painful to cut those first few pages.
Every writer has to kill their darlings at some point, but this is the first time I’ve been faced with scrapping more than a paragraph. And even though I didn’t totally trash them (they’re in a different Word document since I couldn’t face deleting them forever) it still felt pretty crappy to have to start again.
I can’t help but think, if it feels so wrong to murder a couple of pages, imagine how painful it must be to massacre a whole chapter (or multiple chapters for that matter).
But whatever way I look at it, I’m a killer. I kill ideas and lines and similes in my head all the time, squeeze the life-blood from them before they even get to the page.
It doesn’t matter how many character corpses we dump on the back roads, or how many plots we toss into the river, murder is a part of good writing. And if the authorities catch us we can all plead insanity.