I cut two thousand words out of the story last night. It didn't hurt as much as I thought. It didn't hurt at all, actually - it was quite liberating. Now, finally, it's the story I wanted it to be.

I've come to realize that you can't truly call yourself a writer if you write. You can only call yourself a writer when you EDIT - and I mean really rip the holy living shit out of your work, not just add and subtract a few words. Writing isn't a skill as much as a reflex, IMO. The skill comes into play when you go back and objectively look at what you've written, and then shape it into the thing it's supposed to be. I supposed a good analogy would be comparing someone who digs up a stone and someone who cuts and polishes it. Both people have specific and necessary skills, but only one of those people can rightfully say they're making a diamond.

Mind you, I'm not creating diamonds here. That won't happen for a long while. But whittling this story down and down and down has caused some kind of shift in how I view writing in general, and how I view my writing, and my skills. I can't quite articulate all of it yet. It's just a feeling, though, that something significant is happening.

Then again, it could just be the last traces of NyQuil talking. :)

Labels: revising