I’m in the middle of a class assignment–write a letter to someone, anyone, about anything.
“Prune the big limbs, then shake out the dead leaves.”
I grimace. I am almost at the end of page two, single-spaced mind you, and I have worked hard, though rather mindlessly, to get this far.
“When we fall in love with all our quotes, characters, anecdotes, and metaphors, we cannot bear to kill any of them. But kill we must” (50). Clark reminds me, a voice coming out of my foggy haze. Arthur Quiller-Couch echoes him, “Murder your darlings” (50).
I turn back to my assignment, like I must.
Cut the big limbs.