I've been a bad mama to my story children. When they misbehave or develops warts, I abandon them like a bad red-haired stepchild (no offense to you red-headers out there--personally I love red hair and wish I had some of my own). I replace them with new story drops that I place tenderly in my pocket and nurture with love and attention. Some of these drops fail to thrive and I toss those like dessicated acorns that will never bear trees. A few of my drops grow into adults and get sent out to make their way into the world, to be admired or despised by those who experience them.
But what to do with the ones I've abandoned? Every so often the guilt attacks and I pull them out of the drawers I've hidden them away in, dust them off and tend them for a half a minute or so before I decide I was right in the first place. I throw them back in the drawer and shut it with disgust, ignoring their cries and pleas that they'll be good and not misbehave ever again. They're lying, you know, evil children that they are. They have no intention of opening up and telling me how to mold them into the best they can be. They keep their secrets, these children of mine.
Please don't send the story cops after me.
But what to do with the ones I've abandoned? Every so often the guilt attacks and I pull them out of the drawers I've hidden them away in, dust them off and tend them for a half a minute or so before I decide I was right in the first place. I throw them back in the drawer and shut it with disgust, ignoring their cries and pleas that they'll be good and not misbehave ever again. They're lying, you know, evil children that they are. They have no intention of opening up and telling me how to mold them into the best they can be. They keep their secrets, these children of mine.
Please don't send the story cops after me.