Deleting lots of writing can seem bad, at first. When you realise it needs to go it quickly becomes a good thing. Actually, destroying paragraphs that serve no purpose other than boring the reader is VERY satisfying. Furthermore, if we’re to compare the artistic grief of deleting words than…say…having to restart the Sistine chapel, then it’s no biggie.
I had that special moment again, when you’re reading and thinking, what the hell is this shit?! Principles need reaffirming. Either you’ve got to be saying something or something’s got to be happening. What I’ve found with some of my less inspired prose – you could say connective tissue – is it resembles a kind of sludge where I’m trying to convey motion and feeling at the same time. An overly considerate type of storytelling that loses its edge.
Each paragraph should entice you that little bit more to carry on, to invest in the character, to want to know where it’s going. You gotta boost them into the next chapter, not sap the will to live.
Anyway, I’d previously spoken about climbing up a mountain to get some nice first-hand experience that relates to the book 2. I’m gonna feel those high winds. I’m gonna feel the burn as I conquer the craggy heights. Hopefully I won’t fall off, or have to be recused and end up on sky news.
Time to book those tickets! Dedication to the craft! HUZZAAHH!