As a writer I am painfully aware of the commandment that we must "kill our darlings."
For those of you who haven't run into this rule yet, let me explain. It's that line in your poem that is so perfect it hurts your heart. It's that bit of dialogue in your novel that makes your character glow with their own personal soul. It's that bit of wisdom that makes writing worth living. And you wrote it.
But -- and it's a very big 'but' -- if the rest of your work is less perfect, you gotta cut it.
Why? Because the whole point of writing a poem or a story is for the reader to experience it. It should all happen inside their head. They should see it and feel it themselves.
The very beautiful and quotable line that you are so proud of will throw your reader out of the story. It will say to them "Forget the poem for a minute or maybe forever because this bit is so much finer. I am the god who wrote that. Aren't you impressed?!"
That is not to say that there are not writers who can liberally sprinkle such gems throughout their work and I, as a reader, will be carried without interruption through their story, buoyed on beauty.
Barbara Kingsolver is just that sort of writer. I believe she is the finest writer living and working today.
My first experience of her was the Poisonwood Bible. It was published in 1998, but I didn't read it until two years ago. I was amazed by its language and structure. It's a story told in first person from five points of view -- a mother and her four daughters moved by her Southern Baptist missionary husband from a segregated Georgia to a small village in the lush but dangerous Belgian Congo.
I've since read several of her short stories and I'm pleased to say each is well-done.
Animal Dreams, published in 1990, is every bit as good as The Poisonwood Bible.
Instead of going into the unknown jungle, Codi, the main character is returning to a small Arizona town named Grace where she and her younger sister grew up.
"Hallie and I were so attached, like keenly mismatched Siamese twins conjoined
at the back of the mind."
at the back of the mind."
Codi remembers the day her sister left Tuscon to do good deeds in Nicaragua.
are violent things, and clean, they leave you feeling like you have cried."
And she, too, left Tuscon to return to the home she'd never felt at-home in. She was returning to care for her father, the town doctor who was declining into that worst of aging's punishments, dementia. She describes her town when she arrives by bus.
"There wasn't a soul on the street today and I thought of those movies in which a
town is wiped clean of its inhabitants, for one reason or another -- a nuclear holocaust,
say, or a deadly mutant virus -- leaving only a shell of consumer goods."
say, or a deadly mutant virus -- leaving only a shell of consumer goods."
"I knew I'd been there. Sitting in Jonny's ... hunched in a booth drinking forbidden
Cokes, reverently eyeing the distant easy grace of the girls who had friends and mothers.
Those things didn't seem so much like actual memories as like things I might remember
from a book I'd read more than once."
Cokes, reverently eyeing the distant easy grace of the girls who had friends and mothers.
Those things didn't seem so much like actual memories as like things I might remember
from a book I'd read more than once."
Some of those memories had not been true and some had.
"I can see my mother there, a small white bundle with nothing left, and I can see
that it isn't a tragedy we're watching, really. Just a finished life."
that it isn't a tragedy we're watching, really. Just a finished life."
And Ray Bradbury may be the best wordsmith ever. Where Kingsolver scatters her jewels on every page, Bradbury often builds each paragraph, each bit of dialogue with the most wonderful lines. In one of the many short stories in the collection which takes its title from my own favorite short story "I Sing the Body Electric" we meet Bradbury's robotic grandmother. She was purchased by a father for his three motherless children. Each child has their own needs, their own perspectives and after describing the care giver each wanted -- three different colors of eyes, three different styles of hair, three different everything -- they receive their perfect grandmother.
"And the golden mask face of the woman carved on the sarcophagus lid looked
back at us with just the merest smile which hinted at our own joy, which accepted theoverwhelming upsurge of a love we thought had drowned forever but now surfaced
into the sun.
Not only did she have a sun-metal face stamped and beaten out of purest gold,
with delicate nostrils and a mouth that was both firm and gentle, but her eyes, fixed
into their sockets, were cerulean or amethystine or lapus lazuli, or all three, minted
and fused together."
"The sarcophagus spelled winters ahead, springs to squander, autumns to spend
with all the golden and rusty and copper leaves like coins, and over all her bright sun symbol, daughter-of-Ra eternal face, forever above our horizon, forever an
illumination to tilt our shadows to better ends."
A grandmother that we would all wish to have raised us and to raise our children.
Now, if only we all wrote as well as Kingsolver and Bradbury, none of us would need to "kill our darlings."
Do I have darlings? Yes, and they have been torn from my writings with me screaming and kicking for every one. (This is why we need editors!)
They are all safely ensconced in a folder marked "Cut Stuff That Might Be Good Somewhere."
