Wow! It's been over two weeks since I last dipped my toe into 'Tales', although to be truthful, it feels like a whole lot longer. I was up in Scotland for some of the time, sighing over beautiful scenery while suffering indescribable humiliation at the hands of my beloved offspring. They seemed to have a joint agreement in place to misbehave as horribly as possible in front of far-flung relatives. Ah, the little darlings... Thankfully they are back at school!
I've been busy this week trying to remedy the holes in my poor, sickly novel. It's taken a few months of soul-searching to be able to turn back to it after it was dismissed (yet again) as complete garbage [- why am I admitting this?] by a literary consultant. And I paid for the privilege of the sound kicking it and I received. Never mind; armed with her advice, maybe this time I might get it right? But I know not to hold my breath.
So, settling down with a mania for cutting out the rubbish bits, and following Stephen King's esteemed advice to 'murder one's darlings', here is a little bit which I really liked. I really, really like this passage, but it serves no purpose whatsoever, so I've gouged it out, and here it is, bruised and bloody, and slowly going cold, a savagely murdered darling...
The tailor had retired to Thatchington after a working life spent snipping and stitching in London. But to his wife’s chagrin, he couldn’t keep his fingers free of a needle and thread, in spite all of her well-planned intentions. ‘It’s going to be lovely moving out into the country,’ she’d sighed to all of her cronies, conjuring a gentle retirement of trips to the garden centre, and pottering around with friends. They hadn’t been in Thatchington a week, before he’d signed an agreement to rent the former gift shop sandwiched between the antiques place and the delicatessen. He tried to wheedle a thaw in her cold, wordless wrath by suggesting it would keep him out of mischief, but she merely pursed her tight lips tighter still, and refused to talk for a week. Silly old fool; he would sew himself into the ground.
Rest in peace poor dear paragraph. Right, which one next?