Kill Your Darlings
I was sitting in my middle row chair during our class discussion and listening to my professor’s lecture about the proper structure of writing essays when she suddenly said something that caught me off guard,
“Kill Your Darlings”
According to her, it’s a popular phrase used in the contemporary world, which means: to remove extra sentences and paragraphs that serve no purpose in addressing the entirety of the message you’re trying to deliver.
Of course, I know that such advice has been passed from one renowned author to another and has helped millions of aspiring writers master their craft before I sat down in that classroom and heard my professor share that trick with her sleepy students. So, who am I to question professionals who follow such a technique, especially if they’re one of those who aim to attain the highest form of recognition modern literature has to offer?
But as a self-proclaimed, 21-year-old, amateur writer who loves spontaneity and authenticity, I say BULLSHIT!
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
I couldn’t even bear the thought of killing my darling, flesh and blood, what makes you think it’s easier for me to delete a paragraph?
And no offense to our professor, whom I consider one of the most talented people I’ve come across so far in my life. But sometimes, we need to consider that just because one technique worked for someone does not mean it will be effective for everyone.
I’ve written countless essays, both creative and academic. If you have a Medium account — which I know you do, because how on earth are you able to read this entry if I didn’t personally show my Google Docs draft to you — you’ll see that the average reading time of my finished entries is between 4 and 6 minutes. That is almost, if not more than, 6 minutes of blabber, so don’t be surprised if you catch me beating around the bush before I get to my point… like right now.
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I wrote an essay almost a year ago about how lost I felt navigating my first year as a college student because I realized that I was once a big fish in a household aquarium, and got thrown in the ocean; no matter how much I try, yes, I can be enough, but I will never stand out again.
I could’ve said “I’m insecure,” but I didn’t. Instead, I went around in circles, littering my childhood traumas in each paragraph I wrote, hoping that the words I typed out would justify who I turned out to be or what I failed to become.
Actually, I just realized that if I read that essay out loud to you, you might not immediately understand that my struggles navigating self-discovery in college are the highlight of the entry. Why? Because I was over-describing the subplots, I forgot to address my main point until I was nearing the conclusion and had run out of synonyms and antonyms.
Jeez, I talk too much and in a disorganized manner. It’s no wonder people either space out or get fascinated when I am speaking.
Maybe my professor is right? It might be beneficial for my personal growth if I consider killing my Darling, both the living, breathing one (figuratively speaking), as well as my extra sentences.
But then again, what is left for me to write about if I am suppressing my feelings and not beating around the bush, just to avoid actually addressing it?
I tried editing my drafts, eliminating sentences to pass the socially acceptable writing structure. Still, in doing so, it feels like I’m mutilating myself each time I tap the Delete key. I reread the final versions of essays I had to do major trimming on, and I’m certain they still make sense to my readers, but to me, they feel incomplete because I know that, at some point in the past, there was an entire 8th paragraph I wrote that no longer exists.
I feel like a film Director forced to cut scenes from my 2 hours and 30 minutes full-length film to meet the production’s expectation of only showing a 1 hour and 45 minutes movie, including credit rolls already. It’s like when I found on YouTube the supposed-to-be-pivoting scene in Midsommar of Florence Pugh and her manipulative boyfriend that didn’t make the final cut. It should’ve been there as part of the final output, not sliced off to meet someone’s standards of what’s digestible and what’s considered too much for viewers.
That is my take on the piece of writing advice. What I am trying to say is that it’s so hard for me to let go, even though everyone sees it fit to remove certain parts of what made things the way they were.
I’ve killed too many Darlings in my life just to keep the peace. Do I need to do that in my literary works to make things seem digestible for others as well? I hope not.
