Welcome to part two, the Hydroxycut after-pic of my previously portly story. This picture actually has nothing to do with editing, or stories, or writing…in fact it's completely irrelevant. I just think it's funny, and representative of how I feel whenever I'm awake.You may recall that I'd challenged myself with chopping a 4700-word story down to 3500. It wasn't easy, but thanks to the invaluable assistance of my critique partner whom I adore to the point of impropriety...
We are down to 3476 words. Oh yeah!
This morning, the story and I sat down and had a conversation. The transcript is as follows:
Me: So, Story? How do you feel now that we've surpassed our word-loss goal?
Story: HUNGRY. I HATE YOU.
Me: C'mon, baby. Don't be like that.
Story: *stony silence*
Me: Well I think you read great. Tighter. Improved pacing. More tension. That's gotta feel good, right?
Story: I WANT MY EXTRA 24 WORDS BACK.
Me: I don't think I like your attitude. I did this for you. Maybe a couple weeks in the drawer will help you understand that.
Story: DON'T YOU TOUCH ME.
Me: Look, I can see we're in a weird place right now. Maybe we should take some time and--
Story: I THINK YOU HAVE A SUBMISSION TO PREPARE.
Me: Are you sure you're ready?
Story: I GUESS…but if I'm rejected, can I come back home?
Me: "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." That's Robert Frost.
Story: YOU READ A POEM? I THINK I MIGHT FAINT.
There you have it folks. An untidy ending. I'd hoped my story would shower me with gratitude and we'd live happily ever after. Overall, I feel good about what I've done, but there's a part of me that wonders. Did I cut too deep, nick a vital organ, transect the aorta? I suppose time will tell.
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