The next item on my schedule is rewriting/editing a piece I hate. I consider it a fail. Surprise, surprise, it has been languishing in my short story draft file. I don’t hate the premise, but the story’s execution is weak. There are words, sentences, ideas I may salvage. It requires me to roll up my shirt sleeves, prepare for construction dust, and do Atlas-style weightlifting.
I considered hitting the delete key, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It is funny. I have burned entire notebooks, filled with handwritten stories, without hesitation. But deleting a file is anathema. From a logic standpoint, the pen, ink, and paper creations should be more difficult to destroy than impersonal electronic I’s and O’s. Perhaps it is the fact that those files don’t clutter my desk, occupy real-life space, and are easy to move to my “Fix Someday” Folder.
I have several of…
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