The thing about pruning is that the tree loves it.
Photo courtesy of Ulleo on Pixabay
Cutting away all that dead wood, snipping off the excess leaves and twigs that were so necessary at the time, just in case some disaster happened. Paring it back until the whole majestic structure makes sense. The structure becomes the beauty on which the leaves and fruit are given space to breathe and be seen in all their glory. A gardener cannot afford to be sentimental. Rip it out, chop it back, clear the space…
Yep, I’m editing.
I have an awful lot of words—a superfluity of them. Each one carefully crafted, mused over, lovingly cherished and laid down in long strings. My darlings! Do I really have to kill you?
Oh the joy of gardening. I find that I am an unsentimental editor.
A whole chapter in existence for just one small thing? Really? I have grown a complete branch laden with twigs and leaves that has only one small olive on it.
Chop!
A character looks at another character. Well, what else are they going to do?
Chop!
She… She… She… consecutive sentences clanging like a bell.
Chop!
Hmm one sentence in the right place, saves fifty later on.
Chop!
Oh for heaven’s sake, get to the point.
Chop!
I am in love with my pruning saw. It is merciless. Then suddenly it gets to the quick and I jump back. Over twenty per cent of the manuscript lies in cuttings around my feet. (It is a very long novel.) Have I just got a bit too carried away? Better get someone else to read it for me.
Salatheel 