One of the hardest parts of writing, or any creative endeavor, is knowing when to crinkle up the paper and start over again. The novelist William Faulkner called this killing your darling. Country singer Kenny Rogers called it knowing when to fold ‘em. (And when to walk away. And when to run.) If I could give young writers one piece of advice it would be to make peace with this idea of creative destruction. If the story idea isn’t working, don’t force it. Just shoot it dead and move on.
In a more general sense, we can look at this phenomenon as a rut. We’ve all stayed in bad relationships, or bad jobs, or with bad books a bit too long because investing time and energy into something bonds a person to it. We’re not wired to give up, and thankfully so.
Which is all the more reason to admire nature’s callousness this time of year. The efficiency with which she kills her darlings.
Dawn broke pink Tuesday morning – the color of something frilly you’d find in a lingerie store. As the horizon became more modest, the new light showed just how cold 15.8 degrees really is. The left over pumpkins that seemed impervious to the first touches of frost are now shrunken black piles of goo. Mums: gone. Same with the rest of the cold crops in the garden.
We’ve had our five months of easy living. Raised our gardens with tender care, coddled our apple trees and flower beds. Now we watch these kingdoms crumble and fall. It all sounds melancholy when you put it this way, and sure, there’s that. But there’s also the new beginning part amidst the end. Nature has the courage to deliver what we, perhaps, could not.
Ready or not, here’s our chance to take stock, break out a fresh sheet of paper, and dream it all up again.
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