Last night I deleted 2,600 words from The Rapture Café.
But after reading through page after page (after page) of needless dialogue and the overpowering ickiness of telling, I assure you, it’s better off. Sometimes I go back and reread something I’ve written, only to retch and wonder aloud, “what the hell was I thinking?” while reaching for my beloved Delete key. I’ve been told that means I’m growing as a writer. I can see that. But when does the growing stop?
Do you think Stephen King gets the urge to rewrite Salem’s Lot? Or that Anne Rice wants another go at Interview with the Vampire? Can you picture Oscar Wilde wincing at the rich description of The Picture of Dorian Gray or Mark Twain expressing a desire to change the dialogue between Huck and Tom? I can’t. Not really. So I assume, though we all know what that means*, that some day I will be completely satisfied with everything I write. But, judging by those 2,600 words I chopped off…it’s not today.
Tomorrow’s not looking good either.
*To assume makes an ass out of u and me. (I know how lame it is, but some things just stick with you forever)