KILL YOUR DARLINGS

Disclaimer: this is by no means a fashion rant. But Coco Chanel, that walking lesson in elegant restraint, said something I’ve instinctively stuck to my whole life: “Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off”. Social constructs dictate that this possibly shouldn’t extend to foundational items like, um, pants - but regarding accessorising, it is a very useful little mantra to stick to, to ensure you’re not in danger of going overboard. (And something my inherently beige, minimalistic style witnesses greatly to.)

However, recently I had the searing revelation that this quote could be applied to more than just one’s tendency to overdo it on the bracelets. It is also particularly helpful in the context of writing. I.e., in my case: “Before you hit publish, revisit each sentence and remove one adverb.” Because I’ve realised… I have something bordering on a frightening attachment to the abundant overuse of adverbs. See what I mean? I could’ve written just then: ‘I seriously overuse adverbs.’ But I couldn’t hold myself back. Each word becomes one of my children, and I want to include ALL of them, hence the idea of removing one mid-edit brings on a sensation akin to something dying inside. No, no, unstoppable in my mission to use as much of my native vernacular as humanly possible, instead I have to find the most circuitous way of saying something really simple. Piling adjectives and adverbs up like a magpie stacking tinfoil because he likes how ‘shiny’ it is, all of my original meaning is lost or at least shrouded in a collective haze of floral ‘describing words’, not nearly as valuable as I think they are. IT’S A PROBLEM.

Luckily, an occupational hazard involves my workplace boasting more award-winning journos than a David Bain trial, so I’m never far short of people to explain to me - oft’ with far more diplomacy than I deserve - of my grave need to cull. One such colleague voted a Stephen King book the most useful thing she’d read in regards to the learning of the actual craft. Titled (creatively) On Writing, inside King asserts the need for every writer to learn to ‘kill your darlings’. Borrowing from this quote by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch - “Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it – whole-heartedly – and delete it before sending your manuscripts to press. Murder your darlings.” King uses the phrase to illustrate the constant need to 86 your favourite bits. You know the ones – that big word you used to make it inescapably obvious how smart you are, but which you’ve gone and used painfully out of context, provoking laughter instead. The sappy deluge of pointless phrases, because you simply couldn’t resist the way the acrophony of ‘vestibular vestige’ rolled off the keyboard. That sentence you thought was genius but which confuses your readers instead. For the sake of your progress, sayeth King, you have to learn impartiality, and wake up to the cloud of self-indulgence that probably surrounds your ‘best work’.

Anyone familiar with the creative process is no stranger to the pain attached to self-editing. Learning to cut, cull, shape, delete, replace and otherwise mangle your own work in an unbiased manner is nigh impossible. Stephen King’s remedy? Write the novel. Put the manuscript in a drawer. For six months. Re-read. Second draft. Most creative types know that distance from your work for a time is the only surefire way to get perspective. Write/make/draw/create/design something. Sleep on it. Revisit it again. Kill your darlings. Hopefully, by the next day, you’ll be ready to, and your work will be better for it.

I will start now, in fact. I shan't press publish yet. I’ll save this. And after returning to remove another 27 superfluous bastardizations of my prose, may later deem it worthy to be inflicted on the blogosphere. Lesson learned, Coco. Lesson learned. And here’s to you, Stephen King.

You killjoy.