Deletion as a Freeing Edit Move

I delete massive pieces of my work quite often.

I look back at what I wrote, and I find myself disgusted with my mediocrity. The way I remedy this is by removing myself from the piece and looking at it like I wasn’t its creator. I just wrote several pages of TCoU:B, and I realized they were all shit. I was bored reading them, and I was bored writing them. I was anxious to continue to the next part because I had set up the next part so well, but instead, I used a cheap cliffhanger trick that thousands of authors/writers (same?) use before me.

FUCK cliffhangers.

I deleted the shitty reading device and spat on its fuckin’ grave. I liquidated the filth from my body of work and watched it swirl the toilet bowl where shit belongs. I’m delving right back in where I want to be. Fuck, I figured if I as an author hated the cliffhanger I wrote, how would you feel if you read it? Undermined. Betrayed. Patronized. Belittled. Sometimes, delete. Don’t worry about rewriting, don’t worry about any of that shit. If something is garbage, throw it the FUCK out. Don’t give it a second chance. It’ll start to rot and stink, clouded and putrefying all the good writing you have done, and will do.

Anyway, the crew are headed to the story’s next scene, and they encounter a being that. Well. Why should I tell you?

I’ll post concept art of this being during the next post. As for plot details, I never reveal what I’m writing. I’ll always post concept art, how I arrived at certain conclusions or characters, but I don’t divulge anything else. I’m trying to decide if this practice is narcissistic, or ritualistic.

I’m tired of my own voice in my head so I’m gonna shut the fuck up now.

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