A Memory from London

But we aren't leaving with Patrick; we're sitting with Bess as she watches the taillights disappear. She sat there for a long time, thinking of her crazy youth: the briskness and constant construction of post-war London, the rough tweedy material of Patrick's dressing-room couch under her bare back, the foolhardy way her heart flung itself at her ribs when she looked into his smiling blue eyes, so hard that once he laid his manicured hand over her heart and said he was afraid it would break through. Desperate, desperate.

A True Story

I saw this link on Twitter this morning: Chuck Wendig's true story of killing the darlings in his writing (it also includes the VERY good advice that having a darling is not, in itself, a good reason to kill it).

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/05/29/a-true-to-life-tale-of-bonafide-darling-killing/

I thought, I could do that. I have loads of dead darlings. Files of them. I have blood on my hands, blood and semicolons and passionate sentences gushing with prepositions. Adverbs seeping out of my desk drawers. Whole characters slain in cold blood. Dismembered chapters underneath the floorboards. And the poetry! Don't even get me started on the poetry.

This is a place for collecting evidence. Evidence of murder most foul. And most necessary.

In memoriam.