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.
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