Writing today, I am trying to cut the pages in my book where I am moving from point A to point B; in other words, the places where inspiration was not hitching a ride with me, and I am plodding along. Why is it so hard to do? It’s not even “killing my darlings.” I think my darlings are, well, darling, and I am keeping them.
Is it like not breaking up with the wrong someone until someone better comes along? That’s not very brave. Right?